


The Necessary Mother

by darthsydious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, It's some Jane Eyre vibes but not really?, Sherlock is a dad, governess au, victorian!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 66,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28389192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthsydious/pseuds/darthsydious
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, recently divorced, father to three unruly daughters. He is in desperate need of help. He hopes a new governess will set the girls to rights. What they need is a mother. One would say he could do with a proper wife as well... victorian!lock, sherlolly, warstan, mythea
Relationships: John Watson/Mary Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Warstan - Relationship, mythea - Relationship, sherlolly
Comments: 23
Kudos: 77





	1. The Necessary Governess

“Eugenia, what have you done to your sister?” Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes, hearing the all-too-familiar cry of Mrs. Hudson the housekeeper coming upon some awful mess at the hand of one of his daughters. Swinging his legs down to the floor, he boosted himself up and followed the commotion to the nursery. Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. Eugenia, the second eldest, stood over her twin sister (younger by three minutes) Hortense.   
“We were only playing, honestly,” Eugenie rolled her eyes.   
“I’ll thank you not to take that tone with me. Now untie her this instant!”   
“Genie,” all three turned to see Sherlock coming up behind Mrs. Hudson. “How many times have I told you not to tie up your sister? Where is Hermia? She’s supposed to be watching you.”  
“She’s with Aunt Mary,” Eugenie informed him. “It’s Tuesday, she always has a music lesson on Tuesday with Aunt Mary.” The disdain in her tone for his forgetting Hermia’s music lesson was all-too-apparent and Sherlock disliked having to think for a moment to recall the fact.

Oh yes. 

How could he have forgotten? Blast this case! Sherlock Holmes was at his wits end. The problem was not the children, and yet it was. He did not regret keeping them, not for a moment, but he could not be a parent on his own and take cases from his brother for the bettering of the British Empire. Of course, taking such important cases meant a better payment, which meant an easier life for the children. He still took on the cases for the lesser-man as well, those that proved interesting, but always with the guilt that these particular jobs did not pay well, and he must think of his children, rather than his own pleasure.  
“Untie her, please,” he said, and Eugenie rolled her eyes but did as he asked. “Go and wash for lunch, it’s almost noon.”   
“Yes Papa,” Hortense answered, once the kerchief was removed from her mouth. 

Heading back downstairs, Sherlock sighed heavily. He wanted very much to be a good father, having children does that to a person, and despite what he used to vociferously claim, he was, in fact, human, and in possession of a heart. He loved his daughters very much, and while he did not wish for their birth mother, he did wish there was someone in the house to give a hand. Mrs. Hudson did what she could. Speaking of,  
“I am not their nanny, Mister Holmes,” he turned as the housekeeper came trouncing down the stairs after him, passing him. She paused on the landing. “But you’d do good to find one; I can’t be up and down stairs all day, not with all the work I’ve got already, and Mrs. Dickerson won’t watch them, not with meals to prepare, not for a hundred quid!”  
“I know, Mrs. Hudson, the thought has occurred to me. I shall write an advertisement this afternoon. Perhaps enough time has passed since the last incident.”  
“I’ve already written one, sign it and I shall put it out in the penny-post after luncheon.” He raised an eyebrow, and then nodded.  
“Very well. Leave it on my desk.”  
“Huh! Desk indeed. You’d never find it if I did,” she went off, muttering under her breath towards the kitchen to help cook lay out the table for lunch. 

Sherlock Holmes was the World’s Only Consulting Detective, and also the father of three little girls. He had, quite foolishly, heeded his brother Mycroft’s advice to marry. He’d done the popular thing and selected a woman that by all outward appearances would be a good wife. Beauty, brains, breeding and all that. The former Miss Adler soon proved to be unwilling to play the part of a happy wife (a quiet hope Sherlock once dwelt on, despite popular belief, he did sometimes think of the happy home-life of his dearest friend John Watson with some envy). Irene acted the dutiful wife brilliantly in public, she even did her part and performed her wifely duties with general agreement that there ought to be children in the marriage. After birthing three girls, Hermia, and then the twins Eugenie and Hortense, she declared she did not want to be a mother, nor, indeed, a wife. He thought often of the night Irene had told him she was leaving. She’d been sitting at her vanity in her room, her maid quietly combing her hair. She wanted a separation, it would mean scandal, of course, not that such a thing mattered to Sherlock. At that point, any respite from her sneaking around behind his back would be welcome, no matter the consequences. Still, he was shocked by her callousness towards the children, he asked she at least tell the children she was leaving, and she promised, then left a day earlier than previously thought, giving no warning, nor even a letter to their daughters. His daughters now. He would keep Irene from them with whatever power he had, she had done enough damage already. 

Mycroft, who had kept tabs on Irene all through the marriage, informed Sherlock that a quiet divorce would be best, especially in regard to the children’s futures. A separation, as Irene wanted, would mean she could come back whenever she wanted, and probably demand money. A divorce would mean a settlement, and cutting her clean away from the girls’ lives. Sherlock agreed, but only on the condition that he be the one to keep the children, without any chance of Irene coming to claim them. It was unheard of, a father taking custody, daughters at that, but he refused, knowing Irene would be an unfit mother. Mycroft had made the arrangements, and now Irene was well away, somewhere in Venice or Bombay or some other dreadfully hot place. Sherlock knew he was well-rid of her, knew her influence on the children would have been terrible. But it was still difficult, seeing Hermia retreat further and further within herself. As the eldest, she remembered her birth-mother quite clearly, at least from her perspective, and felt that somehow, her mother’s leaving was Papa’s fault. She never said so, but Sherlock thought that it must be the reason she stopped approaching him after Irene left. He recalled a time when Hermia would come downstairs, long after she should have been abed. She would sit with him while he talked about a particular case or experiment, or sometimes crawling onto his lap while he was deep in his mind palace. He missed those times dreadfully. She was nearing the age of eleven, Mycroft said it was high-time she be put in a boarding school, but Sherlock would not have it. Eugenie and Hortense were too young yet, only eight. They usually kept to themselves, content to be each other’s entertainment for the time being. Still, each of the girls felt keenly the lack of mother, and they were more apt to run to Mrs. Hudson than their father if they had trouble. He did not begrudge them their affection for the housekeeper, she was the only positive female influence in their lives besides Mary Watson, but he might have enjoyed it if his daughters might sometimes spare him a thought. 

The girls took their luncheon downstairs, (he didn’t see the point in keeping them confined to the nursery when they had the whole of 221b Baker Street at their disposal. Three floors, why on earth would he keep them to one room? The only part of the house that was off-limits was the basement, where he kept his laboratory, and he was in possession of the only key. There had been nannies before, but once word gets out that one or more of your daughters perform (ingenious) pranks on nannies, suddenly all of them are unsuitable to work. So for the past month and a half, they had been trying to get by without one. Today, however, Mrs. Hudson had reached her wits end, having had to untie Hortense for the fifth time, pry Hermia off the ladder to the roof and convince Eugenie that the cat should not be shaved, nor, should poor Jimmy, one of Sherlock’s Baker Street Irregulars, be stuffed into a cupboard. 

After lunch, Sherlock retreated to his study, about to sink once again into his mind palace to sort over the latest case he was working on when Mrs. Hudson appeared, letter in hand.  
“As I said, if you’ll sign it, I’ll send it out.”  
“Nannies have stopped answering the advertisements, remember? They know the address,” he replied.  
“A governess,” Mrs. Hudson clarified. “I can get the children up in the morning well enough, but their days need to be occupied, and as you will not send Miss Hermia to boarding school, it’s time their education began. It’s not unheard of for a governess to live-in. It’s done in a good deal of the great houses.”  
“We are not a ‘great house’, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock reminded her.  
“Holmes is a great name,” she clarified. “And as such, the children will need to be educated. They are clever, too clever for their own good; they’re going barking mad with just the three of them and nothing to occupy them. Jimmy refuses to assist in any errand upstairs. They need someone to mind them.”  
“Why specifically a governess and not a nanny?” Sherlock asked, taking the advertisement she’d written and began to look it over.  
“I thought that if we asked for a governess instead of a nanny, we might get a few replies this time.” Sherlock nodded his approval. “It would mean paying a little more, as we have no nanny.”  
“And you think you could convince whoever applies of the increase in their duties?” Mrs. Hudson looked at him wryly.   
“Well we haven’t a choice, have we?” Sherlock nodded, thoughtful.  
“Very well,” he signed the advertisement, and then dug through his pockets for the money for the post. “There,” handing over the paper and a few small coins. “I trust you to see to the matter, if there is one that appears suitable, you might meet her first before sending her up to me.”   
“What if I know she’s suitable? Shall I wait until you decide you’ve nothing better to do than meet her?” Sherlock pondered this, realizing entirely that if a case came up (as they so often did) it would mean putting off meeting the would-be employee for a considerable time.  
“Then I leave it entirely to you, Mrs. Hudson, but do see that you do not confuse efficiency with a liver complaint this time.”   
“Very good, sir.” Mrs. Hudson, happy she got her way, went to put on her hat and coat and mail it. With any luck, they’d receive a reply by the end of the week. In the whole of London there had to be a governess willing to work with three little girls. 

Weeks passed, and not even so much as a ‘Thank you but no’ letter. Sherlock even told the Watson’s he was looking for a governess. Mary got such a look in her eyes that Sherlock knew she would not let the matter rest, and in fact she most likely had someone in mind already.   
“Who is it, Mrs. Watson?” he asked tiredly John chuckled from his place by the fire.   
“Nothing, just a friend of mine, an old friend, she’s looking for a position.”  
“Do you think she would be suitable?” Sherlock asked, interest piqued. Hermia had almost set fire to the curtains that morning, and at this point, he would take anyone.   
“I think so, yes,” Mary nodded. “She’s never been a governess before, but she’s very brilliant, she’s been applying to universities.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John looked up, knowing suddenly who Mary was referring to.   
“Mary,” his tone was cautionary.  
“What for?” Sherlock asked. “I mean what does she wish to major in?”  
“She wants to be a doctor,” John said. “It’s ridiculous, the work she puts in, only to be turned away every time. Doesn’t seem suitable to me, my dear,” Mary turned to her husband, frowning. He shook his head. “No, not- I meant what if she does attend a college? She’d be leaving them in the lurch again.”  
“I shouldn’t like to withhold her from something as important as that,” Sherlock seemed reluctant.  
“I’m not going to tell her to give up, but she does need a means to support herself, perhaps for the time being, it will keep her distracted and let her get herself organized.”   
“I don’t need someone who themselves is in need of organizing,” Sherlock groused.   
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Mary retorted. “Will you at least meet with her?” Mary asked. The consulting detective sighed heavily.   
“I expect you’d like me to,”  
“Consider it a favor to me.”   
“Very well,” he said. John Watson rolled his eyes, lighting his pipe. 

The next day, Watson’s residence  
“Honestly, Mary, I’m at my wits end,” Molly Hooper sat in the parlor, wrenching off her gloves. “Every letter, every single letter, ‘thank you for applying-“  
“But we do not, nor have we ever admitted women in our university,” Mary finished, nodding. “Believe me, I understand,”  
“I know you do, I’m just fed up is all. All father ever wanted was a doctor in the family.”  
“Don’t you think he understood your limitations?” Mary asked gently. “Goodness, you know how much he cared for you, he’d want your happiness, not demand a position you could not achieve.” Molly sighed heavily. “Do you even want to be a doctor?”  
“Not like Dr. Watson, no, I think I’d like to work in pathology.”   
“Oh!” Mary’s eyebrows rose, clearly surprised at Molly’s choice.   
“Is that odd?” Molly asked, and then shook her head. “Of course it’s odd, but someone’s got to learn about why people die, and so much of the subject is unknown, think of what we could discover about the human body-“   
“You needn’t convince me,” Mary laughed, handing her a cup of tea. “I expect you’ve said all this already to King’s College, there’s loads in Oxford, it doesn’t have to be a large university, you know.”  
“I’ve tried all twenty-five universities in Oxford, and in London- Birkbeck, Royal Holloway, University of Westminster, University of Roehampton, St. Mary’s Twickenham,”  
“You’re not catholic,” Mary laughed, astonished.  
“I thought they wouldn’t mind,” Molly replied with a shrug. “Or at least I could pretend.”  
“You always hated admitting defeat,” Mary shook her head, sitting down. “Don’t give in just yet, but do take a break, at least for a while,” she advised. “You’ll wear yourself out, especially after trying for so long, and wouldn’t they love that?”  
“I suppose,” Molly sighed heavily. “But what should I do until then? Take work in a shop again? I don’t think I could bear it.”   
“Ah, well…there I may be of some help. You know Sherlock Holmes?”  
“The detective?”  
“Hmm, that’s him, he’s got three children, all girls, poor man doesn’t know what to do with them, and he’s looking for a governess.”  
“So you think I should apply?” Molly asked with a quirked brow. “Do be serious.”  
“I am!” Mary insisted. “Honestly, it isn’t as if it would be a challenge to educate them, you’re brilliant with mathematics and geography, obviously, if you’re applied to so many universities your penmanship must be excellent by now.”  
“There’s a good deal more to being a governess than mathematics and map-reading. They’ll need to learn another language, and I don’t know any.”  
“Oh that wouldn’t matter to Sherlock- er, Mister Holmes. He’d probably hire a french tutor, or whatever it is that’s fashionable to learn these days if you taught them everything else.”  
“Isn’t he divorced?” Molly asked, suddenly remembering hearing something about the famous consulting detective’s status.   
“Yes, almost a year by now,”  
“Mary!” Molly was shocked.  
“What? Oh for goodness sakes’, it happens all the time, nice people just don’t talk about it.”  
“That’s something that’s not often said about you,” Molly said, giving her a sidelong look.  
“Nonsense, I’m delightful.” Molly frowned,  
“That’s not always nice.”  
“No, but it’s much more fun,” Mary beamed. “Now come on, what do you say? I’ll help you write your reference letter. He’s absolutely desperate, it’d be a tremendous favor, and his girls are absolute angels.” Mary nearly chewed the inside of her cheek, trying to figure out how large a white lie that was. It wasn’t completely off, Hermia, Eugenie and Hortense could be very, very good. It just so happened they could be very, very bad as well. 

Molly bit her lip, pondering. Her savings would not last forever, and she’d vowed not to touch the inheritance from her father unless she had a desperate need. She needed work. And who was to say she couldn’t keep applying to universities if this didn’t work out?   
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” Molly relented at last. “A trial at any rate.”  
“Good!” Mary got to her feet, hurrying to the writing desk. “You write, I’ll dictate. We can mail it first thing.”   
“Wh- oh, well…now?” she took the paper and ink.  
“Yes now, no time like the present, now go on: ‘To whom it may concern,’”

Shaking her head, Molly bowed over the paper, the nib of the pen scritch-scratching as she wrote down everything Mary said.   
“I don’t like all these embellishments,” Molly said, when it was finished.   
“Nonsense, every resume has them,”  
“But I haven’t been to university.”  
“You’ve gone to tour colleges haven’t you?”  
“Well…yes.”  
“Then you’ve been to a university.”  
“Mary, I’m not writing that!”   
“Oh for goodness sakes’, fine, don’t,” Mary huffed.   
“I don’t think I’ve a way with children either,”   
“Nonsense, look how Tobias and Emma take to you,”   
“That’s different, they’re yours, and they’ve known me since they were born,” Molly sighed. “Honestly.”  
“Children like you, and you like them,” Mary insisted. “Stop doubting yourself.” 

Through much deliberation, Molly’s reference was finished by the time the sun was beginning to set.   
“I’ll see it’s mailed first thing,” Mary said, sealing it up and addressing it. “Look for a reply probably tomorrow afternoon, if I know Sherlock Holmes. It will probably be from Mrs. Hudson, his housekeeper.”   
“What if he decides I’m not fit?”  
“Trust me, at this point, Sherlock Holmes would take anyone,” Mary Watson promised with a smile. Molly sighed heavily, hoping she was right.


	2. We Need a Nanny- I Mean a Mother- I mean

_Dear Miss Hooper,  
Having received your letter of reference from our mutual friend Mrs. Watson, I am inclined to take her at word your suitability for the position of governess in my house. However, as certain members of my family would be bound to be horrified at lack of meeting, I suggest we follow social custom, and you call upon us at half-past-ten this morning for a brief interview to conclude if what I have already deduced to be correct. I look forward to meeting you. _

_Sherlock Holmes_

_p.s. Mrs. Hudson will let you in, she is the housekeeper._

Letter in purse, Molly knocked on 221b Baker Street, stepping back to look at the town house. Just up the street she could see Regents Park, and not far was a tea stall. That should prove beneficial, should she secure the position this afternoon. A moment later, the heavy door was pulled open, and there stood an older woman.   
“May I help you?”   
“Mrs. Hudson?”  
“Yes,” the woman nodded.   
“I’m Molly Hooper, Mr. Holmes sent a note, requesting I come for an interview for the position of governess.” The woman frowned.   
“I’m afraid Mister Holmes isn’t in, he’s just run out, break in his case.” As if that explained it. It did, or at least why he wasn’t here. Still, Molly didn’t think much of a man who could not keep to his appointments. She opened her purse.   
“He told me in his note,” she fished through her purse, retrieving the missive. “Mister Holmes said to come this morning, that he would conduct the interview himself.”  
“Oh that’s like him, forgetting things from one moment to the next when he’s on a case,” Mrs. Hudson nodded, sighing. Molly didn’t know what to do, until the older woman smiled gently, waving her in. “I expect if he sent you a letter it’s all right, come in dearie.” 

Closing her umbrella, she stepped into the warm entryway, eyes adjusting to the light.   
“I’ll put on a pot of tea for us.” Following the elderly woman through the hall to the neat dining room, Molly tugged off her gloves.   
“You received my reference,”  
“Oh yes, Mister Holmes was very pleased from what I gathered, he did say he’d replied, I didn’t realize he meant for you to come today, nor that he’d be running off, it’s he who should be handling this, they’re his children, for all the fuss he put up with- oh excuse me,” Mrs. Hudson turned a modest shade of pink. “The children are good girls, just…very much like their father.” Molly looked around the dining room, which appeared to be in a state of chaos.   
“What does the position entail?” Molly asked, wondering just what Mary Watson had gotten her into.  
“It’s live-in,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Just off the nursery.” Molly frowned at that, surprised. It would not be surprising if Sherlock Holmes lived on a great estate in the country, even then a governess was not guaranteed to live-in.   
“Is that often done?” she asked, and the older woman glanced up from pouring tea.   
“Mister Holmes prefers it,” was all she would say. “Meals are provided, of course.”   
“What time does the nanny have them up and dressed?”  
“I have them up for breakfast no later than quarter-to-eight,”  
“There is no nanny?” Molly was flabbergasted.   
“We are not a conventional household,” Mrs. Hudson’s smile was easy, amused at her own life. “That much is for certain. You are aware, I am sure, Mister Holmes divorced a year ago.”  
“Yes, I heard something of it in the papers, I’m so sorry for the children, it cannot be easy being without a mother.” Mrs. Hudson nodded, doleful.  
“The girls are somewhat troubled by their mother’s disappearance, it has made it…difficult, keeping a regular nanny on staff.”   
“Oh…” Molly quietly stirred her tea for a moment, pondering. “Then I expect that my duties as governess would not be the mere education of the children.”  
“No,” Mrs. Hudson answered, hesitant. “It would mean a good deal more, you see, which is why the job would pay so well. We all tend to pitch in at the moment, but to run the house efficiently you see…” she trailed off. Molly was grateful for the woman’s honesty. “It would mean helping them dress, taking them on outings.” Molly smiled sympathetically.  
“How old are the children?”  
“There are three, altogether. Hermia, she is ten, and Eugenie and Hortense are both eight.”  
“Twins!” Molly realized, and Mrs. Hudson nodded, her eyes were fond then.   
“I have done what I can, but I’ve the rest of the house to look after you see, so you understand how difficult things have been.”  
“It seems to me you are in need of help,” Molly said. She liked Mrs. Hudson. She was just the sort of comfortable housekeeper she’d imagined her to be. “I am an early riser, if you will show me where their things are, it would not take long to set up a routine for mornings and evenings. As for outings, well…I should think I’d fancy a bit of fresh air during the day, the same as the children.” Mrs. Hudson sighed with relief, positively beaming.   
“Pay is ₤50 per annum, Mister Holmes didn’t give me any orders about uniform, I expect what you have will be suitable, and I’ll see about finding you an apron for duties in the nursery.” Molly nodded.  
“When would you like me to start?” 

Molly jumped at the terrific crash from the upstairs, it rattled the overhead lamp, and Mrs. Hudson closed her eyes, weary.   
“I don’t suppose today would be too soon?”  
“Perhaps we’d better see what the commotion was?” Molly was on her feet, and the housekeeper stood, stepping around her to lead the way. 

In the nursery, three little girls were bickering, at their feet was a smashed wash basin.   
“I told you it wouldn’t work!”  
“There’s no reason why it wouldn’t!”  
“It’s not a pie-tin, of course it won’t fly like one, and it most certainly is too heavy, there were plenty of reasons why-“  
“Girls-“ Mrs. Hudson pleaded. Molly stepped around the older woman. The eldest girl, noticing, turned, arms folded across her middle.   
“My that was a noise!” Molly said. She pulled off her gloves. “You must be Hermia.”  
“Yes I am,” she turned to her sisters. “That’s Eugenie,” the little girl with wide blue eyes stared at Molly. “And that’s Hortense,” her hair was dark and curly, and Molly thanked heaven for that small difference. She noticed that wisps of hair were on the girls shoulders, indeed the girl was standing in an almost perfect halo of hair.   
“Merciful heavens, what on earth have you done to your lovely hair?!” Mrs. Hudson shrieked.   
“Her hair is short because Eugenie cut it,” Hermia informed the housekeeper, businesslike. She went to the bookcase, selecting a volume and went to the window seat.   
“I did not!” Eugenie stamped her foot.   
“Well it’s over and done with now,” Molly said. She reached up, unpinning her hat. Mrs. Hudson took it wordlessly, and waited for Molly to hand over her coat as well. “Mrs. Hudson, if you would be so good as to fetch a broom and a dustpan, and Eugenie, will you go and find a brush? We’ll soon have Hortense neatened up before your papa get’s come.”  
“He’s never home,” Hermia said bitterly. “He’s too busy for us, and too busy for you.” Molly straightened, hands on her hips.   
“Well that’s not right, is it? A father should never be too busy for his children.”  
“He is for us,” Hermia retorted.   
“Hermia,” Mrs. Hudson said warningly. She handed Molly an apron and broom. “Dustpan is downstairs, I’ll have it up in a moment. Are your things at the Watson’s still?”  
“Yes, I could send a note, Mary can send a maid over with them so you needn’t have to find a boy.”  
“I’ll see to it,” Mrs. Hudson nodded. She glanced at the nursery, at the hair, the shattered porcelain and the usual chaos that filled the room. “Best of luck to you.” With that the housekeeper was gone, retreating back down to the quiet of the downstairs. 

Apron tied, Molly set to work sweeping up the mess.   
“Who are you?” Hortense asked softly, large eyes staring up at the stranger cleaning their nursery.   
“I’m Molly Hooper, I’m your governess.”  
“Governesses don’t clean,” Eugenie said with a frown.   
“Well, this one does,” Molly said, smiling at her. “I’ll be helping in the nursery as well as teaching you.”   
“It’s because nannies don’t like us,” Hermia informed her sister. “Nobody likes us because mother and father don’t love each other anymore.”   
“Hermia!” Molly was startled at the child’s cruelty.  
“Don’t lie to them,” Hermia said, eyes sharp and angry. “I’m tired of everyone telling us there’s nothing wrong. Everything is wrong.” There was such a fierceness in Hermia’s eyes, and Molly realized that it was her way of protecting her sisters.   
“I won’t lie to you, or your sisters,” Molly said, looking squarely at Hermia. “I don’t lie, I don’t embellish, and I don’t hide the truth.”  
“So it’s true,” Hermia stated, a wickedly triumphant tone in her voice, she glanced at her sisters. The meanness was back. “No one likes us!” Hortense looked as if she was about to cry. “That’s why everyone left.”   
“Nanny Weston liked us,” Hortense said softly.   
“Nanny Weston hid gin in the teapot,” Hermia snapped, rolling her eyes.   
“Hermia, that’s enough,” Molly broke in. “If you can’t say anything pleasant, please be silent.”  
“It’s true though!” Hermia insisted.   
“I don’t know Nanny Weston, but I trust she was discharged for a legitimate reason, which, if it was, indeed, hiding liquor in a teapot, I should hope you did not imagine such a thing.”   
“I’d have rather imagined it,” the little girl retorted hotly.   
“Miss Hooper?” Eugenie’s large eyes were filled with tears already. “Is it true that no one likes us? Not even father?” Hermia looked at her younger sister, expression unreadable, then looked to Molly. 

Molly took Eugenie by the hands, drawing her close. She knelt, looking from her to Hortense, and then Hermia.   
“I think deep down, your papa loves you very much, but there is something you ought to know,” the girls regarded her curiously. Molly met each of their gazes, then drew breath: “He’s a man,” Hermia snorted, mouth twisting to hide a grin. Molly continued, “Men can be silly, and sometimes they’re afraid of their feelings because they’re so strong, and they don’t know how to put them, so they do all the wrong things first like ignoring them, before properly dealing with them. But I promise you he loves you, or else he wouldn’t be looking for someone to teach you and help take care of you.”   
“What about the other nannies? Don’t they like us?” Hortense asked. Hermia looked steadily at Molly, watching her pause to think carefully.   
“I told your sister I would not lie to you,” Molly said at last. “As your governess, it’s my job to teach you about the world, and the first thing you need to know is that there will always be someone in the world who does not like you.” Hortense looked as if she might cry then. “Listen to me,” Molly said gently, finger under her chin, lifting it so she could see her little face. “There will always be someone who doesn’t like you, and they don’t need a reason. The most important thing though, is that you like yourself. The people who don’t like you,” Molly shrugged. “Poo on them!” Hortense giggled through her tears. Molly smiled, gently wiping her wet cheeks. “You don’t have to live with those people, so don’t worry about them. It can be hard to live with yourself, when you aren’t happy with yourself.” The little girl nodded, understanding. Fingering her shorn hair, she looked at her shoes.  
“Eugenie cut my hair…I’m not happy with that,” Molly laughed, touching the crown of Hortense’ head.   
“At least it grows back! Let me clean this mess up first, and then we’ll see about fixing your coiffure to something suitable.” Hermia, who had been watching Molly all the while, deducing her, (a talent Mrs. Hudson said she inherited from her father) stood up.  
“I’ll go find her hairbrush,” she offered and ran off to the adjoining room. 

In a little while the mess was cleaned away, and Molly sat in a chair, Hortense on a hassock between her knees.   
“What time is your father due home?” Molly asked.   
“We don’t know,” Hermia answered. “It’s never the same.”   
“Hmm,” Molly nodded. There had to be something she could do about that. The children needed consistency. With so many comings and goings in the staff at Baker Street, the irregular hours their father kept, and the fact that their mother was gone completely, what the children needed most was proof that they were cared for, especially from their father. 

“Hoo-hoo!” Mrs. Hudson knocked on the open door. “Mrs. Watson’s maid dropped off your trunk,” she stepped aside as a willowy man with large eyes carried it in. “Set it there at the end of the bed,” the housekeeper pointed to the second adjoining room.   
“Thank you,” Molly said to the man who nodded, doffed his cap, and headed back downstairs. “I didn’t know Baker Street had a footman.”  
“It doesn’t technically,” Mrs. Hudson replied. “That’s Billy, Mr. Holmes pays him for odd jobs around the house. There’s a hall boy, Michael employed in the winter.”  
“Just the winter?” Molly raised an eyebrow. She finished brushing Hortense’ hair and reached for the ribbon Eugenie was holding for her.   
“It’s Mister Holmes’ system,” Mrs. Hudson shrugged. “You and the girls take supper downstairs.”   
“Downstairs?” Molly echoed. “I- err…I thought we ate in the nursery.”  
“Oh no, not at Baker street,” the housekeeper said. “The children have always taken meals downstairs. Mister Holmes couldn’t see the point of keeping the children upstairs and away from him.” She smiled at the group. “Supper will be ready in thirty minutes.” With that she was gone, rustling back downstairs. Molly looked at Hermia, who seemed to have the same thought: _‘Why give the children free run of the house, if one stays away all the time?’_

 **Late That Night**  
Sherlock slipped quietly inside 221b before locking the door behind him. With a sigh, he pocketed his key and removed his coat and hat. Mrs. Hudson would be long abed by now. Feeling for the first time in several days hunger pains, he decided he had put off the inevitable for long enough and made his way to the kitchen to see what Mrs. Dickerson had left for him. Whatever was in the warming oven would be long dried up, but it would do, several days without food, smelling the leftover roast and potatoes, he realized he was positively ravenous. Seeing a bit of cheese left on a plate, he grabbed that, along with an apple and a wedge of pie. Arms full, he made his way into the parlor to look over his spiders' web before tearing it down. Job well done indeed. 

Hearing the front door close, Molly sat up. Quietly, she slipped out of bed, taking her dressing gown from the hook. Pushing aside the shuttered doors that separated her room from the nursery, she noted the girls were fast asleep, and so she tiptoeing past them and out into the hall. Tying her robe securely about her, she made her way downstairs, following the noise of pacing feet and crumpling paper. 

In the doorway of the parlor, she stopped, taking in the impressive sight of Sherlock Holmes, the World’s Only Consulting Detective. Broad-shouldered, tall as a bloody tree, (there was an innuendo there, she was sure Mary Watson would have something naughty to say) Molly felt her jaw almost drop. Apple currently between his teeth, he stood in his sock-feet on the sofa, throwing papers, string and any evidence that could be nailed to the wall off the wall. His jacket was thrown over the back of a chair by the fire along with his waistcoat. He’d shrugged out of his braces, letting them hang down by his hips. He reached for his shirttails, beginning to untuck them, and Molly realized if she did not speak up then, she may see her new employer in a state of undress before she’d even met him properly.   
“I beg your pardon,” she found her voice at last. He apparently had not heard her, for he continued much in the same manner, untucking his shirt, taking a bite of apple and then ripping something else off the wall, doing a horrible damage to the paper behind it. She lifted her hand, batting at what appeared to be a bundle of rocks encased in a silk stocking as it sailed through the air, right towards her. “Mister Holmes!” The stocking and rocks hit the wall by her head with a resounding ‘thud’. Sherlock turned, realizing someone was speaking. 

Sherlock stared at the pretty young woman (both of them frankly in in a state of undress) standing with her hands on her hips, glaring at him. He released his shirttails, tucking them back into his trousers.  
“Hello,” he said around the apple. He frowned, removing it, taking a bite out of it and chewing noisily. “You’ll forgive me if I continue eating. It’s been some time since I’ve had a proper meal.”  
“You could have come and had dinner with your daughters,” the woman said. Sherlock turned back from his spiders-web, or what was left of it, rather.   
“Unfortunately, at the time the children were having dinner, I was trying to keep a man from strangling Doctor Watson with a piano wire, Miss Hooper.” He stepped down off the couch, and Molly took an involuntary step back. He positively reeked of confidence and with the apple now out of his mouth, she could see the illustrations of him in the paper hardly did him justice. He was a man who knew just how handsome he was, and it irked Molly considerably. “New governess. Sorry I couldn’t meet with you today; I am pleased Mrs. Hudson got you squared away.”   
“Yes, I am the governess,” Molly replied, having recovered. “I am rather used to people keeping their appointments with me.”   
“Evidence came up that could not be ignored,” he said, his gaze narrowing at her.   
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson told me.”   
“Well then I fail to see the problem, you got the position, didn’t you?” hands in his pockets, he sized her up, but she folded her arms across her chest.   
“I did, and I am horrified at the condition of your children.” A look of alarm crossed his features.   
“What is the matter with them? Are they ill?”  
“Not physically, no, sir, they are neglected, badly, and by your own hand!”   
“My hand?!” he fairly roared.   
“Shush!” she hissed. “You’ll wake them, it was hard enough to get them to sleep, all of them wishing to stay up until you got home so they could kiss you goodnight.” Sherlock felt a stab of guilt.   
“They understand my work is very important.”  
“Oh yes,” Molly nodded. “Oh yes indeed they understand; they also understand that you think of them after all else.”   
“Who are you to tell me about my children?” he growled, towering over her. She stepped up, craning her neck so that she could meet his gaze.   
“I am their governess and their nanny, but all that cannot hold a candle to what they really need.”  
“And what is that?”   
“A mother.” He stepped back suddenly, fire in his eyes as he averted his gaze.   
“They haven’t a mother, I have employed you, Miss Hooper to educate my children, to care for them to the best of your ability. If you are unfit for this task, then you may collect the day’s pay and leave in the morning.”   
“I never said-“  
“Miss Hooper, you are skating dangerously close to unemployment, if that is your goal, by all means, lecture me again on my duties as a single father-“  
“Miss Hooper?” a soft voice on the stairway made them both turn. Hortense stood in her nightgown, rubbing her eyes. Sherlock watched Molly’s gaze soften. “Miss Hooper is Papa home yet?”   
“Yes dear,” she answered. Hortense opened her eyes a little wider, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile down at her. Sleepily, she made her way across the parlor and hugged his legs.   
“What happened to your hair, Hortense?”   
“Eugenie cut it,” she yawned. “Papa you were gone all day, you missed Miss Hooper putting us to bed. She sings Papa, even Hermia likes her.” Sherlock looked at Molly, quirking an eyebrow.   
“Come along now,” Molly said softly. “It’s very late now, and you have school in the morning.” Hortense had sunk down to sit on her father’s feet, head against his calves, already nodding off.   
“I can carry her,” Sherlock bent, but Molly was already gathering the child into her arms, cradling her as if she were her very own.   
“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s my job to put them to bed.” She said nothing more, but held his gaze for a moment longer before turning away and heading upstairs. Sherlock watched her retreating form, then at the parlor, his spiders-web torn down and scattered across the room. Miss Hooper would most certainly fit in at Baker Street. What irked him though was not that she took to reprimanding him (in her nightgown and slippers, no less) but that she was absolutely right. He would not soon forget the way her large eyes flashed at him, clearly upset. She seemed to believe him capable of doing more, and his first thought was to prove her wrong. But he wanted to do more, he did love his children, dearly. He would not trade them for the wide world. It hurt though, seeing someone sweep into his house and be able to name the trouble so clearly so quickly. Well. If she could identify the problem, then she could certainly come up with the solution, one that did not involve him finding the girls a new mother. Sherlock Holmes would never marry again, so Molly Hooper would just have to find another way to fill the void for the children. The girls certainly did not need a mother! They had a nanny now, er, governess. Besides that, there was Mrs. Hudson, and Mrs. Dickerson, and Mary Watson! So there. Plenty of women to look up to and hold in a motherly capacity. 

He sighed heavily. 

Bloody hell.


	3. When Your Feet Don't Touch the Ground

In the weeks to follow that first strange day and night, a routine of sorts settled over the house. Molly rose early every morning just after dawn, washed and dressed and then woke the girls. She was pleased that none of them were prone to lazing about in bed. Once Miss Molly was up, they were up as well. As soon as they were dressed, they lined up and waited their turn as Molly set each one before her and began to brush out their long hair. Thick, dark brown locks adorned each girls' head, and it was Molly's job to braid and unbraid it each night and morning. At least Hortense didn't take as long, indeed she had to sleep in a nightcap, for Eugenia had cut her hair to her earlobes and was too short to braid at night. Still, braids or not, Eugenia and Hortense squirmed and wriggled.  
"It hurts!" they would cry and brace their elbows against her knees, struggling to get away.  
"If you pull, of course it hurts," Molly chided. "I'm brushing from the bottom; it won't hurt unless you struggle."  
"Nanny Weston always pulled," Hortense insisted.  
"Am I Nanny Weston?"  
"No," Hortense said quietly.  
"Well then?" and Hortense would sit still. Eugenia still winced and pulled faces as the brush drew closer to her scalp. As they were young ladies in a fine house, they wore their hair down, rather than in two braids down their backs. Mrs. Hudson insisted it was the proper thing to do and was adamant they wear their hair as was befitting their station. Molly took to muttering to herself about such a stupid rule. It took almost forty-five minutes to comb out every snarl and tangle and less than five minutes their hair would be all knots again. She took to pulling it back away from their faces. Hermia disliked having the same hair as her sisters.

"Why can't I pin it up yet?" she sulked one morning.  
"Because grown ladies wear it pinned up, and that's the way of things, I'm afraid," Molly sighed.  
"Then why can't I wear it in a braid?"  
"Mrs. Hudson doesn't like you to wear your hair in a braid."  
"That's stupid! It's my hair!" Molly sighed heavily, trying her best not to smile. She had become used to the Holmes girls speaking their minds, and while she did not take kindly to any cheek, she did appreciate that they knew themselves well enough to know when something was ridiculous.  
"I'll tell you what," Molly said at last, seeing Hermia was quite upset. "We'll fix your hair today, same as usual, and I'll speak to your father, if he has no objection, I'll help you fix it up tomorrow."  
"He won't care," Hermia sighed heavily. "He never cares."  
"He's still your father, and so I must ask permission," Molly said. "Now sit still."

'He won't care' was a phrase Molly pondered embroidering onto a cushion for the nursery. It was stated several times a day, by each of the girls.  
"Won't your father be pleased to see your lovely penmanship, Hortense!" she praised one day. Hortense looked at her chalk-board of curly-cues and loops she'd been practicing, looked up at Molly and shrugged.  
"He won't care."  
"You've done a lovely job on your arithmetic, you ought to tell your father at luncheon," Molly tried again, later that same day with Eugenia.  
"He won't care." The little girl shrugged, looking at her page of sums. Molly felt helpless for a moment. She wasn't trying to pretend with them. She was sure that Mr. Holmes would be terribly proud of their work. They'd come by in leaps and bounds in their schoolwork, all of them exceptionally bright. Hermia excelled at arithmetic, and all of them loved to read and write. At the end of each week, Molly pinned up their best sketches in the nursery for their father to see, in hopes that he might come up and see what they were doing. Hermia helped her, deciding which ones she liked best before handing it to Molly to pin up.  
"He won't come up, so why do we bother pinning them to the wall?" the little girl asked. Molly dug through the box for another thumbtack.  
"Well, don't you like to see your accomplishments?" Hermia shrugged. "Look how well you've sketched the ducks at the park."  
"It's flat and lacks perspective," Hermia replied, somewhat bitter. Molly gave a laugh.  
"I think it's quite nice, and besides, no one is perfect starting out. You've improved your shading over the past weeks, and look how you've begun to work out detail, you've a good eye." Hermia smiled a little then, pleased.  
"I wish…" she faltered, smile gone again.  
"What?" Molly asked gently, but Hermia shook her head.  
"Doesn't matter," she took the drawing, pinning it to the wall herself. "He won't care."  
"Hello!" a voice from the stairs called up, and Molly turned. Hermia turned with a beaming smile.  
"Aunt Mary!" she ran to the door just as Mary Watson appeared.  
"Hello darling girl, how are you? My doesn't the nursery look lovely! Look at all your drawings!"  
"Miss Molly helped us put them up," Hermia answered.  
"Where are your sisters?"  
"In the garden,"  
"Will you go and fetch them for me please?" Hermia nodded, scurrying off down the hall, hair flying behind her. Straightening, Mary smiled. "Well! There's a sight I haven't seen in ages!"  
"What?" Molly asked.  
"Hermia, smiling," Mary replied. "Settling in all right?"  
"Well enough," Molly shrugged.  
"Oh dear," Mary sighed, taking a seat at the nursery table. "What is it?"  
"What's what?"  
"What's wrong?" Mary clarified. "I know that look, Molly Hooper." Hands on her hips, Molly chewed her bottom lip, thinking.  
"I'm only surprised is all," Molly shrugged. "You know how I grew up, Mary, it was just father and I. He never needed reminding that I had school work, or that I loved reading, or that I even existed, for heavens sake!"  
"Your father was a good man," Mary agreed. "A very good one. He was meant to be a father. It suited him very well."  
"And it doesn't suit Mr. Holmes?"  
"He had never planned on marrying," Mary replied quietly, listening for the girls coming up the stairs. "While he got on fairly well with Irene, when it came to children he was quite out of his element, though no one will deny his love for them." Molly heaved a sigh, nodding in agreement.  
"I suspected as much."  
"You'll simply have to encourage him," Mary said.  
"Encourage who?" Eugenia asked as she came into the nursery, Hermia and Hortense close behind.  
"Little pitchers have big ears!" Molly replied. "Come and sit with your Aunt Mary,"  
"May I show her my sketch?" Hortense asked and Molly nodded for her to go fetch it.

**Later that night**  
"Mister Holmes?" Molly peered into the parlor. The girls were quietly playing, and so Molly took her chances, deciding it was a good time to seek out their father to speak with him. Unfortunately, the room he most often occupied was empty, and the consulting detective was nowhere to be found. Hearing the housekeeper's footsteps on the stairs, she returned to the hall. "Mrs. Hudson, has Mr. Holmes gone out?"  
"No dear, he's in the basement, no case for a week, he'll be in his laboratory."  
"Oh I see, thank you." Molly had not been to the basement, there wasn't much of a reason for her to go down there. Still, it meant they would be undisturbed if she were to speak with her employer regarding his children.  
The stairs to the basement were off the kitchen, the door at the top of the stairs was left unlocked, so she knocked lightly before opening it. The sound of tinkering met her ears, so she opened the door, gathering her skirts and descended the narrow staircase. Another door stood at the bottom, light shining through the keyhole. Trying the handle, she found it to be locked.  
"Mister Holmes?" she rapped loudly on the wood paneling. "Mr. Holmes-" the door was yanked open, and there stood her employer in a stained smock, thick rubber gloves covered his hands, he gripped a bottle of some foul-smelling liquid.  
"Ah, Miss Hooper, smell this," he thrust the bottle under her nose and she reeled back at the stench, nose wrinkling.  
"Ugh! Mister Holmes, please!"  
"Hm," he frowned at the bottle. "Would you say that is bitter?"  
"Yes! No," she paused, thinking. "Sour, more than bitter." he nodded, thoughtful.  
"Still not potent enough," he took her by the hand, leading her into the lab, kicking the door shut behind them.  
"Mister Holmes may I speak with you?"  
"Hm?"  
"I said may I speak with you."  
"About what?"  
"Your children?"  
"Hm?" he looked up, distracted, then realized what she'd said. "Oh. Yes, you don't mind if I keep with this do you? I'm quite close to getting the correct measurements,"  
"No, no, of course not," she waved her hand and he nodded, pleased, turning back to his worktable.  
"Well?" he asked over his shoulder. "What seems to be the problem? Are they misbehaving again?"  
"No, no, they've been lovely, nothing beyond the usual sibling bickering,"  
"Oh," Sherlock stopped working for a moment. "Then what?"  
"Well…Hermia…she'd like to start styling her hair."  
"What's keeping her from doing so then? You're unwilling to help her?"  
"No, that isn't – what?" Molly frowned, shaking her head. "It isn't usually done for girls under fourteen, but she does hate it in her face, I've offered to braid it but Mrs. Hudson thinks girls of their standing should keep their hair-"  
"Never mind what Mrs. Hudson thinks," Sherlock waved his hand. "The girls are entrusted to you, I don't give a fig what usual people do for girls' hair. If it bothers her, bloody chop it off. Hortense seems quite happy with her shorn hair."  
"That was Eugenia's fault, rather than a personal choice." Molly replied with a wry smile.  
"Very well," Sherlock replied. "Is that all? If you've nothing else to tell me other than a minor crisis of coiffure, I really must finish this."  
"You said you'd work while I talked," Molly reminded him. "And no, that is not all, Mister Holmes," she crossed the room, standing the work bench as he stirred and poured a variety of odd-smelling chemicals into another bottle. He glanced at her in-between pouring.  
"Very well," he nodded.  
"Mr. Holmes, I don't like to be indelicate-"  
"Pish-posh, if you really believed that, you'd never have come downstairs to reprimand me in your nightgown and slippers your first night here." She colored modestly, but stuck her chin out.  
"Mr. Holmes," she began again. "You seem to forget your children need you." He paused briefly, sparing her a glance. "They need you desperately. They love you immensely and simply want your affection, your approval!"  
"I do approve of them!" Sherlock insisted, looking quite indignant as he lowered the bottle in his hands.  
"Yes but do they know that? Have you told them?" she paused. "Ever? Children like to be reminded that they have their parents' affection, especially when they only have one." Sherlock studied her then.  
"You never had a mother growing up."  
"No sir, I did not," she fidgeted her hands for a moment. He was quiet as he pondered this for a moment, his usually critical eyes softened as he gazed at her, wondering just exactly what sort of woman she was. He had deduced all the important things about her already, namely she was not insane, not a murderer, not an alchoholic, not addicted to substances, was clean, good-mannered, all the things an employer should know. Her character, however, remained largely a mystery. He could deduce a person's character in five minutes. It had been five weeks and he still could not tell why a woman as clever as Molly Hooper would prefer to be a domestic when she could attend a university and study whatever she bloody well pleased.  
"Was it difficult?" Sherlock asked finally. Molly looked up, startled by his question. She thought carefully.  
"Sometimes," she nodded then, more sure. "A lot of the time, especially as I got older. One can't tell their father certain things, you see, and I didn't have a nanny or governess to help me, not even a sister. Still, I always knew my father loved me, he'd have done anything for me. We saw each other every morning at breakfast, and every night from supper on, I knew we would be in the parlor with tea and we'd talk about everything and nothing, or we'd take turns reading the paper. It wasn't said enough, but I knew he loved me, and that is something I'll always be grateful for. Things didn't matter so much, so long as we had each other." Molly had not spoken of her father in earnest in a long time. She blinked, realizing her place. "Excuse me," she murmured. "I don't mean to reprimand you. It's just that I only say what I've observed. The children feel neglected. They have become accustomed to being ignored, and by the person they need most in their lives. It would be a shame if they grew up not knowing their father. Such a brilliant man ought to see what brilliant daughters he is blessed with, shouldn't he?" She dared look up, only to see Sherlock Holmes staring back. His expression was almost strange, as if he were deep in thought, as if he was moved by her words. Blinking rapidly, he thrust the bottle under her nose again.  
"Smell this." Shaking her head, almost frustrated, she paused for a moment.  
"You will try to see more of them, won't you?"  
"I will," he nodded. She leaned forward then, bending her head. She inhaled the saccharine sweet odor.  
"What on earth-" she felt her knees buckle. Through blurry eyes she saw Sherlock Holmes, and then the world all tipped sideways and everything was dark.

**Ten minutes later...**  
She came to on the parlor sofa. Someone pressed a damp cloth to her forehead and cheeks. She inhaled deeply, moving to sit up.  
"Be still," Sherlock spoke softly. "Lie back down until your vision clears."  
"What was that I smelled?" she asked. He continued to soothe her temples with the cloth.  
"A concoction of mine, I must apologize," he said, rather meekly. "I did not know it would act so effectively as a sedative."  
"What were you trying to create?"  
"My last case, the room the victims were found in reeked of a saccharine-sweet odor. The perpetrator kept a jar under the floorboard. It was unfortunately smashed in a scuffle, and I have been trying to recreate the compound ever since."  
"I think you accomplished that," Molly sat up with a grimace. "Good heavens, did you unbutton my blouse?!" she fumbled to close her shirtwaist, quite embarrassed. Sherlock had the decency to stare at the floor, his own cheeks flaming.  
"Your pulse was very slow, I had to be certain you were still alive," he gestured to the stethoscope laid on her lap. "Apologies. I would have asked, but you were unconscious at the time."  
"Yes well…" she touched her head, gingerly feeling for any sore spots.  
"I caught you in time," he said. "It wouldn't do to let the only nanny my children adore strike her head on the stone floor."  
"I'm sure you'd find someone just as suitable," Molly shrugged.  
"No." Sherlock replied. She looked at him, surprised, he met her gaze. "I shall be up to see them to bed this evening." Wide-eyed, Molly nodded.  
"Half-past eight they will be ready." She slid her feet down to the floor, pushing herself up, and Sherlock gave his hand. Smoothing down her skirts, she headed upstairs, not even daring a glance behind.  
That evening at eight thirty, the girls had their hair was brushed and braided, shrugging into their nightgowns.  
"Don't be all night about it," Molly said. "Teeth cleaned?"  
"Yes Miss Molly," the girls answered.  
"All right then, off to bed with you."  
"Will there be a story?" Eugenia asked. Molly drew breath, about to answer her when she heard Sherlock answer:  
"If I may be the one to read it," Hortense and Eugenia bounced to the ends of their beds, both talking at once. Hermia remained where she was, unsure of what to make of it.  
"Now, now," Molly said. "Come along, into your beds, your father will read to you." Crossing the room, Sherlock took by the fireplace, at the end of the three beds. Molly sat at the other end, mending basket on her lap.  
"What shall we read tonight?" Sherlock asked.  
"It's Hermia's turn to choose," Eugenia said. Silently, she handed him a yellow book with green lettering on the cover. Sherlock waited until they were settled in their beds, arms over the covers. Wide-eyed they waited expectantly for their father to begin.

"The Ramayana," he began.

The children listened, paying rapt attention as their father's rich voice spoke of the beautiful city Ayodhya, of the king of the fair city, and his perfect son Rama, of his three other brothers. They were swept away with the tale, wanting desperately to stay awake and hear it all, but one by one, they all dropped off. Hermia lasted the longest, wanting to speak with her father when he finished reading. She wanted to know why he'd come up to read to them. He'd never done so before. But her eyes grew heavy, and the last thing she saw was her father sitting by her bed, her favorite book in his lap as he read about Rama and Sita's wedding.  
"Mr. Holmes," Molly Hooper's soft voice startled him, and he looked up. She smiled apologetically. "They've all fallen asleep." She set her mending aside, smiling at the children. "They lasted as long as they could,"  
"Did they enjoy it?" he asked. Molly looked at him, surprised.  
"Didn't you see their faces?"  
"No I was reading," he set the book on the chair, standing. "If…" he glanced at her. "If it does not disrupt the nursery schedule, and if I do not have a case…I suppose I might come up and read again."  
"I am sure they'd like that very much," Molly nodded. He stood by the door, watching his children sleep for a moment longer as Molly went around, putting out the lamps and shutting the curtains. Sherlock watched from the doorway as she finished turning down the lights, then went to each girl, tucked them in properly and then tenderly kissed their cheeks, stroked their curls as she murmured softly:  
"Goodnight dear." The gentleness in her tone, the affection in her touch made his heart ache, and he was keenly reminded that these should have been the actions of their mother. He wondered suddenly why Molly did not have a family of her own. She clearly loved children, or perhaps she only loved his children. The thought warmed him, and he did not understand why. He found himself glad she took such an interest in his daughters, glad she felt comfortable enough to kiss them goodnight. She was, most certainly, exactly what they needed.  
As Molly rounded Hortense' bed, she realized Sherlock was still at the door.  
"Oh! Excuse me, sir, I thought you had gone up already."  
"I will say goodnight," he said, straightening, appearing very much like a startled wild animal. "Thank you for your assistance in the lab, Miss Hooper." With that he was gone, and Molly could only shake her head, closing the door behind him. It was only a start, his coming up at bedtime, but it was a welcome one, and hopefully it would mean a change for the better in the young Holmes' girls lives.


	4. One Must Haymaker While the Sun Shines

Almost three months settled into her job, Molly Hooper began to really think she could change the Holmes girls lives for the better. If she could just keep on their father to keep coming up in-between cases, which he had so far held to. Still much of his life was private to them, and until bedtime, they often did not see him. Mealtimes, she had hoped conversation might be a little more family-like. Instead, Mr. Holmes read the paper at lunch, or sifted through letters to do with Scotland yard or people writing, begging for his services. The girls ate, sometimes bickering, most of the time sitting quietly, doing what most people expected of children: being seen but not heard. Still, there were small improvements.

Hermia, now with her father’s permission, was allowed to braid her hair, and with Miss Molly’s help, pinned it to the crown of her head to keep out of her face. She was most interested in botany of late, and was currently performing her own sort of experiment involving plants and different types of soil. She had treated the soil with different solutions to see the outcome of each of the plants. So far, they lined the widest windowsill in the nursery, all at different levels of growth. Hermia kept track with a tape measure and made fastidious notes in a small diary. Her father had yet to notice her little experiment, but Molly hoped very much he would see. Judging by his own laboratory, surely he’d be thrilled to see his eldest daughter following in his footsteps.

“Will father be up tonight?” Eugenia asked one night as Molly tucked her into bed.  
“Not tonight dear one, he’s away on a case with Doctor Watson, they’ll be back very, very late tonight, so I’m afraid you mustn’t be allowed to stay up,” all three protested and made such a fuss that Molly despaired of them ever falling asleep. That is until she recalled a trick her father used to rely on. She put up her hands. “I’ll tell you what,” she said and they all stilled. “We’ll tell stories for as long as we can, if you can stay up,” she crossed the room to the clock that sat on the mantel. “Until the little hand reaches midnight, you may stay awake until your father comes in.” Hermia looked to Eugenia and Hortense, and all three turned back to their nanny.  
“Done!” Molly nodded, reaching for the yellow book in the chair by the fireplace.  
“Not the Ramayana,” Hermia said. “That’s papa’s story.” Molly nodded, and moved the book to Hermia’s bedside table.  
“Quite right,” she agreed. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll start a story, and then Hermia tells a little, and then Eugenia, and then Hortense, and then me again, we’ll go round and round, all right?” This seemed like a good plan, and all settled in as Molly began:  
“Once upon a time, in a far away land, there was a great dragon with black wings,” Molly did give the girls credit, they each had a brave streak a mile long, which made telling bedtime stories rather enjoyable. They liked stories about dragons and ogres and great hairy monsters that lived in the woods. Hermia took hold of the story instantly, (dragons were her particular favorite). Naturally, the tale became wildly silly, as Eugenia wanted a princess to be best friends with the dragon, and Hortense decided the dragon had long flowing locks and wore a crown.  
“That’s not what dragons do!” Hermia insisted, interrupting Hortense. She sat up in her bed, hands on her hips. “Dragons fly about and breathe fire and- and- “ she thought for a moment. “They roll about in gold!”  
“Gold?” her sisters echoed. Molly smiled down at the mending in her lap, running the thread through the square of wax.

“Where does the great dragon get this gold?” she asked. “Go on, Hermia,” she prompted. Hermia lay back, hands folded onto her stomach as she continued the story. After a while, Hortense dropped off, then Eugenia struggled to find words, sleep heavy in her voice, until it was only Molly and Hermia left awake. Hermia looked at the clock, dismayed to see the little hand was not anywhere near the twelve. “And then what did the princess say to the dragon?” Molly asked, her voice was soothing. She rocked gently in her chair. Hermia was quiet, thinking. She watched Miss Molly push herself back and forth on the tips of her toes peeking out from under her skirts. Hermia had decided a little while ago she liked Miss Molly. She was good and gentle, she often thought that was what a mother must be like, what her mother must have been like before she went away.

“Hermia?” Molly looked up to see the girl’s large eyes filled with tears. “Oh darling, whatever is the matter?”  
“I miss my mother,” Hermia confessed. Molly set her mending down, looking with pity and understanding upon the child.  
“Oh dear, of course you do,” Molly said. Hermia looked up at her, surprised.  
“It’s…it’s not a bad thing?”  
“No dear, of course it isn’t!” Molly answered. “My goodness, I miss my mother very much too. Some days I’m so upset I’d like to kick something over if I could. Much good that would do,”  
“Did your mother leave like mine?” Hermia asked. Molly had picked up her mending, then set it down again to think.  
“I don’t know all the details of your mummy,” she said after a moment. “Mine left my father, she didn’t like that we were poor. She wanted a better life,” Molly was quiet for a moment, looking past the dress in her hands. “She died without a farthing to her name, hating that-“ she blinked, realizing perhaps it wasn’t a story for children after all. “Well. Never mind. No, Hermia, it is never bad to miss your mummy, and if you ever do, you may come and find me, and tell me, or sit with me and cry a little if it will make you feel better.”  
“Did you mother love you?” Hermia asked. Molly had a feeling it was the sort of question Sherlock Holmes would have asked.  
“No, dear,” Molly shook her head, then picked up the dress again, setting to work. “No she…” Molly heaved a sigh. “She did not love me. I don’t even know if she loved my father, but I thank her for carrying me. There are many worse things she could have done for lack of love for me.” Hermia was quiet, thoughtful again.  
“I don’t know if my mother loved me,” she said after a long while. Molly had no answer for her, running her thread through the wax, she began to hum, setting her chair to rocking. Hermia watched the fire behind the grate, eyes growing heavy.  
“What are the words?”

Molly looked up, surprised.  
“Will you sing the words please?” Hermia asked, still staring at the fireplace. Molly nodded, taking a breath:

_Lavender's blue, dilly dilly,  
Lavender's green  
When you are king, dilly dilly,  
I shall be queen_

_Who told you so, dilly dilly,_

_Who told you so?  
'Twas my own heart, dilly dilly,  
That told me so..._

Round and round, the melody went, the chair creak-creak-creaked and the thread whispered through the fabric with each tug of Miss Molly’s nimble fingers. Hermia had listened to her sing them to sleep before, she’d watched night after night Miss Molly sit in the rocking chair and mend their clothes or toys. It was comforting, seeing someone so relaxed, and quiet and happy. Miss Molly never shouted, she raised her voice at times, but never out of turn, and never simply because she lost her temper. She smelled of good soap and light perfume that Hermia had never smelled before, like lemons and flowers. It was that night, after Miss Molly had talked about her mother that Hermia decided she must stay, forever, if possible.

Hearing a deep sigh, Molly looked up to see Hermia at last fast asleep. Quietly, she set aside her mending, humming to herself as she got to her feet, tucking Hermia in, and pressing her forehead. She did the same to Eugenia and Hortense, picking up the little girl’s dropped rabbit, noting the stuffing was just about loved out of it, and it would need mending again very soon. She took the tray that bore the empty cups and jug of warm milk, deciding to save Mrs. Hudson a trip. Pausing in the doorway, she looked back, seeing everything was in place. She turned down the lamps, smiling at the serene picture before quietly shutting the door behind her.

 **Downstairs**  
Rinsing out the jug and cups, she left them in the sink, finding the roller towel to dry her hands on. Just as she was about to put out the light, she heard the front door open, and someone fall hard against the coat rack with a groan. Doctor Watson was speaking,

“Careful, careful, don’t rest on your ankle, it’s swollen. Got to get that shoe off before we can’t get it off.” Taking her candle, she hurried out to the front hall.  
“Mister Holmes!” she cried. He looked as if he’d been thoroughly beaten. He stared almost owlishly at her, bruise decorating his left eye, so swollen he could not quite keep it open, jaw and brow. His bottom lip was split and swollen, as was his right cheek. He hobbled, arm not through his coat sleeve, he held his middle, wincing with every step. Both men reeked of cigars and drink, though both appeared to have their wits about them, despite Mr. Holmes looking as if he’d been through the ringer.  
“Help me get him to the parlor, will you?” Molly set her candle down and took Mr. Holmes’ other arm, putting it over her shoulder. Together, they got him to the sofa and set him down. Molly ran to fetch her candle then, lifting the chimney of the lamp, she lit the wick, turning it up higher so the light was better.  
“Oughtn’t he be in his bed?” Molly asked.  
“For now, the sofa will do,” Watson said, opening his bag.  
“What on earth happened?”  
“Fight, obviously,” Holmes said.  
“My god, what sort of brute-“  
“Not a brute, a champion fighter,” Holmes corrected Molly. “His haymaker is what did me in,” he chuckled, and Watson shook his head, just barely beginning to smile, but coughed, seeing Molly’s glare.  
“This is amusing, is it?” she asked sternly, hands on her hips. Sherlock quirked his brow.  
“I think so, yes.”  
“Tell me, was this ‘fight’ part of your case, or you just happened to go to the boxing matches?”  
“Boxing matches are perfectly legal, and yes, for your information, though you are not entitled to it, it was to do with a case!” Sherlock sat up, wincing in pain as he held his side.  
“I told you, you cracked a rib, let me get you wrapped up first, idiot,” Watson shook his head. “Miss Hooper, will you please oblige me, bring warm water and a basin to clean his face?” She left the room in somewhat of a huff, and Watson shook his head, giving a short whistle. He bent to help Holmes get his shoes off. “Swollen, probably just turned it, keep it elevated tonight.”  
“Whatever has her in a tizzy?” Sherlock asked, still looking at the empty doorway.  
“You coming in like this, I imagine.”  
“What’s it to her?”  
“Nothing I expect,” Watson shrugged. “I’m sure she’ll tell you, if you ask.” He checked his watch. “Right, sit up, let’s get you out of your coat and shirt so I can tape you up. Mind you don’t do anything strenuous for the next couple weeks while you heal.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Nothing ‘recreational’ either, Holmes, hear?” The doctor flicked Sherlock on the ear. “Oi! You hear me? This isn’t just your life anymore. I don’t care how bored you are. So help me I will wire your brother and make him come here every single day and play whist with you, understand?”  
“For your information, I have not touched anything recreational since Hermia was born,” Holmes snapped, batting his friend’s hand away. Despite the pain in his ribs, he shrugged out of his jacket and waistcoat without Watson’s help. Molly returned as he finished unbuttoning his coat. Watson was surprised to see her sleeves rolled up, hands freshly washed.  
“I brought another basin, so you can wash your hands,” she said, and he thanked her, surprised she had thought of such a thing. Sherlock gasped, half out of his shirt and Molly crossed the room as Watson set his hands in the soapy water. “Let me help before you do yourself a further harm,” she said, a slight bite in her tone.  
“My thanks,” he grunted.

Drying his hands, Watson cleared his throat, Molly had already taken out a clean roll of bandages from his bag, handing them to him. Watson probed Holmes’ torso, listening as Sherlock grunted ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to his queries of ‘that hurt?”. Satisfied, Doctor Watson began the process of wrapping the bandage roll tightly around Sherlock’s waist. Molly was upset that despite her being cross with him, she couldn’t help but stare. She’d never seen a man’s naked torso before, for goodness sake, except the marble statutes in the British Museum. Good grief, he was like the marble statue of the river-god Ilissos, broad-shouldered and well-muscled and- and- good grief!

Sherlock Holmes watched Molly Hooper flush a particularly charming shade of pink as her pupils dilated, and she lowered her gaze to the floor.

_Fascinating._

“My thanks, Watson,” he sat up with a grunt. “I am perfectly able to finish cleaning up, go home to Mary.” Watson glanced between his half-dressed friend and Miss Hooper.  
“Err…perhaps I should-”  
“Never fear,” Sherlock interrupted. “I’m in perfectly good hands. Go home, Watson.” After a moment, the good doctor nodded, and gathered his things. Molly followed him to the door.  
“Thank you for seeing him home, the children were most anxious, I don’t think he would have managed otherwise.”  
“I did warn him not to take part in that fight,” Watson said, placing his hat on his head. “Don’t suppose you’d like to do the honors and scold him? Otherwise I’ll have to send Mary over, and that’s never a pretty picture.”  
“No indeed,” she agreed. “One never likes to be at the receiving-end of Mary when she’s upset! Thank you, Doctor Watson, good night.”  
“Good night,” he nodded to her and shut the door behind him.

Sherlock sat on the sofa, half into his shirt when he heard Molly Hooper’s little feet come furiously tap-tap-tapping down the hall and into the parlor.  
“Ah, there you are, perhaps you can help me-“ he didn’t get to finish the sentence because she’d slapped him.  
“You-“ she clamped her mouth shut, yanking his arm through the sleeve of his shirt.  
“Ow!” She said nothing, yanking the shirt over his chest, buttoning it with no small amount of fury. She was about to step back when he grinned cheekily at her. “You’re not going to tuck me in?” He didn’t blame her for slapping him that time, frankly. “May I ask why you have decided to treat me like an infant?” he asked, holding his jaw (there might very well be a bruise there in the morning). She whirled around, holding his jacket and the leavings of bandages, the damp linens from the now empty bowl of water.  
“Mister Holmes, I don’t suppose you remember that you are a father, do you?”  
“I beg your pardon?” he made a face as the popped stiff collar waved comically behind him until he yanked at the offending garment and tossed it aside. “Of course I am aware.”  
“Oh yes? And yet you put yourself in danger like this, getting beaten to within an inch of your life-“ He snorted, shaking his head.  
“It was hardly that-“  
“Reeking of strong liquor, do not tell me you did not imbibe, sir I know the smell and signs of a man who has had something to drink, perhaps more than his share.” Her eyes flashed, and he regarded her then, quite seriously, albeit the tiniest bit amused.  
“I’ll bet you do.”  
“You have three, wonderful, lovely little girls upstairs, who adore you with all their hearts, and you- you cannot seem to understand how precious that is! They won’t love you impartially forever,”  
“So you have said,” Sherlock replied, a snap to his voice. “What do you suggest I do? Sit about braid their hair and hosting tea parties with imaginary friends?”  
“No!” Molly said. “I should expect you to try to know them! You barely speak to them!”  
“Do not instruct me on my children,” he growled. Molly ignored this warning and stepped up.  
“Eugenia has a head for mathematics, better than her elder sister, and far above her own level. Hortense’s penmanship is brilliant, and she’s taken to writing her own stories, she’s incredibly bright. She pieces together information better than anyone. And Hermia, she’s quiet mostly, she’s observant. I don’t know her as well as the others, but someone’s got to, or you’ll lose her!” Sherlock threw the damp flannel onto the couch, about to storm out when Molly followed after, picking up the flannel before it left a wet spot as she spoke up again: “She has an experiment in the nursery, not that you would know.” He stopped in the doorway, lifting his head.  
“What?”  
“She’s experimenting. Soil and plants, the effects of different solutions introduced to the plants as seedlings. She’s having trouble, and, as I am not a scientist, I have been trying to convince her to go to you. I’ve read some books, but you, sir, you have your own laboratory.” His shoulders sagged, and he turned to her.  
“Miss Hooper it seems every time we speak you scold me on my poor performance as a father.” She blinked, feeling a lurch in her stomach. Dear God. She’d done it now. She was about to be dismissed. Instead, he studied her. Sherlock Holmes had the very annoying ability to reduce her to a flushed, pulse-racing mess and she wasn’t sure if she hated him for it or not. The intensity of his gaze made her duck her head.  
“I only tell you what I observe,” she answered softly. She dared look up to meet his gaze again. “Someone has to.”  
“The truth is hardly ever what we want to hear,” he said after a moment. “I am not a good father,” he admitted. “I do not…have the capacity to do all the things Doctor Watson does, cuddling and…horse rides in the parlor and so forth.”  
“If you saw the way they look at you,” Molly spoke again. “Hungry for any scrap of attention…” she was so in earnest, as if she was about to cry, and Sherlock realized how seriously she felt on this matter, that indeed, there must have been a good deal of truth in the matter. “No child should ever look at their parent like that.” Sherlock was quiet, hands in his pockets.  
“They remind me of their mother, and how I’ve failed them.”  
“No, sir,” Molly closed the distance between them. “You stayed, that is no failure. You kept them because you love them. That is not failing. Their mother left because…” she shrugged. “She had her reasons, whether they were right or wrong, they don’t matter anymore, she’s gone. But if all you see is her in their eyes, you aren’t looking well enough. There’s so much of you, I don’t know what sort of woman their mother is, but if they are indeed her children, there is hardly any of her there, I see so much of you in them.” The corners of Sherlock’s mouth turned up ever-so-slightly.

“Thank you.”


	5. When Your Voice Won't Make a Sound

The next day, when Molly and the girls sat down for breakfast in the nursery, they were all surprised to see Sherlock standing in the doorway.   
“Papa!”  
“You’re back!” all three chorused, leaping up from the table to hug him. He grunted in pain as Hermia nearly head-butted his ribs and Molly inwardly winced.   
“Oh Papa what happened?” Hortense cried, seeing his bruised face.  
“Nothing to worry about,” he soothed, tousling her curls.  
“Did you catch the bad man?” Eugenia asked.  
“Bad woman, in this case,” he corrected. “And yes, I did.”  
“A woman did that to you?” Hermia asked, quite shocked.   
“No, it was-“ Molly cleared her throat and Sherlock glanced to see her shaking her head ever so slightly. “It was a bad man working for the bad woman,” he answered succinctly. It was mostly true. “Now, I shan’t disturb your breakfast,”  
“Papa can eat with us, can’t he Miss Molly?” Hortense asked, already tugging her father over to the table.   
“Yes of course he can, I’ll go and fetch another plate,” Molly stood, setting her napkin aside but Sherlock was already sitting down.   
“Never mind,” he reached for a napkin, spreading it on the table as a plate. “This will do.”   
“What about your porridge?” Hermia asked.  
“I never eat porridge, this will do for toast and jam, is there tea?”  
“I’ll have to get another cup for that,” Molly said, again beginning to stand, but Sherlock again shook his head.   
“I’ve brought a spare,” he delved into his pocket and set it on the table. Molly smiled and reached for the teapot. “Now,” he turned to his three girls. “Hermia, what is this about an experiment with soil?” Hermia looked up from her breakfast, wide-eyed.   
“I- I collected different samples of soil,” she said, gaze oscillating between her father and Miss Molly. “We collected some from the garden, and from the park, and I asked Billy to get some from the Thames, and I’m keeping them at different levels of moisture.”  
“You’ve also measured out different substances in the dirt,” Sherlock added, looking at the plants in the windowsill.   
“Some pencil shavings, others have medicine in them, others have just water,”   
“It seems to me,” Sherlock wiped his mouth. “I have a good many different chemicals in the lab-“ Molly made to protest but he was one step ahead of her. “Perfectly safe,” he promised Molly. “After breakfast, if Miss Hooper will allow, perhaps you may accompany me downstairs, and we will select a few vials to add to your experiment.” Hermia nodded vigorously.   
“Papa did you know Miss Molly plays piano?” Eugenia asked in-between bites.   
“I did not know that,” Sherlock answered her, glancing at Molly.   
“It’s hardly anything to mention,” Molly said. “And we must take smaller bites, or you’ll be belching all through your lessons,” Eugenia and Hortense both burst into a fit of giggles as Molly tried to hide her own smile.   
“While your sister and I are in the lab this morning,” Sherlock addressed Eugenia and Hortense. “Perhaps you will entertain your Uncle Mycroft for me.”  
“Hooray!” the girls both crowed.   
“Miss Hooper, I trust you may be counted on to help,” Sherlock added, and she nodded.   
“Yes, sir.” She did not know Mr. Holmes had a brother, and she wondered what sort of man would be related to Sherlock Holmes. Was he as unconventional as her employer? “What time is Mr. Holmes calling?” Molly asked.   
“Not until later this morning, so he shan’t interrupt your daily sojourn to the park, do you mind missing it, Hermia?”  
“No, I want to work on my experiment,” she insisted and he nodded, the tiniest of prideful smiles forming. Breakfast was eaten in haste, and Molly didn’t have the heart to scold them. Eugenia and Hortense were eager to go to the park and then to entertain their beloved uncle, Hermia to the basement with her father to work on her experiment. 

Leaving the clearing away to Mrs. Hudson, they parted ways as soon as plates were cleaned. Molly sent Eugenia and Hortense to wash their hands and faces and then to collect their hats and gloves. She paused in the doorway of the nursery, seeing Mr. Holmes lingering there.   
“Thank you,” she said, quite sincerely. “It’s made such a difference for them,”   
“I am pleased to,” he glanced down the hall where Hermia was waiting. “They are very bright.”  
“I told you so,” she couldn’t resist saying. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, but did not respond, instead following Hermia down the stairs. “Come on,” she clapped her hands, turned to the nursery room again, Eugenia and Hortense were rushing about trying to find their things. “Let’s not dawdle, sooner we go out and get some fresh air, the sooner we can come back and you can show your Uncle Mycroft your sketches!” 

The day was sunny, the air was clear, and Molly did not mind taking her place on her favorite bench, watching Eugenia and Hortense playing at a safe distance. A few other children from neighboring houses were with them.   
“This seat taken?” Molly turned to see a woman in a nanny uniform gesturing to the empty spot beside her.   
“No, not at all,” Molly scooted over.   
“I work up the road, at Lord St. John’s, new nursemaid for them,” the woman said. “I’m Lydia,”   
“How do you do, I’m Molly Hooper, I’m employed at the Holmes’ residence,” she said. “Which ones are yours?”   
“My charges,” Lydia pointed across the lawn to two small boys seated in the grass. “Yours?”  
“There,” Molly nodded to where Eugenia and Hortense were playing.   
“Oh, me,” Lydia sighed. “What a difference it must be to look after girls! They don’t get dirty half as much as boys I’ll bet!” Molly laughed.   
“I wouldn’t count on it. Those two, especially.”   
“Are there more?”  
“Three, all together. The eldest is home with her father today.”  
“Oh dear, not sick, I hope!”  
“No, no, nothing like that,” Molly shook her head, frowning.  
“Oh good!” Lydia breathed a sigh of relief. “I won’t let the St. John’s boys near anyone, begging your pardon,” she murmured. “But with illness going around…”  
“One can’t be too careful,” Molly agreed. She paused. “What illness?” she asked. Lydia looked at her, surprised.   
“Scarlet fever, Miss! It’s been spreading around. The St. John’s will be moving the family to the country until it passes. It’s very bad. My brother works up at The London, says they’ve lost ever so many patients, and they’re surprised to have such an epidemic this time of year.” Molly nodded then, quite serious.   
“Thank you for the warning.”  
“Will your family be going to the country as well?” Lydia asked. Molly shrugged.  
“I don’t know, my employer’s work is based in London. I don’t know as he has a country house to go to.” She checked her fob watch. “Oh dear, best get back, the girls are expected.”  
“See you around then,” Lydia smiled. Molly stood, moving to collect the girls. They looked up, waving when they saw her coming.   
“Eugenia Holmes, where on earth are your gloves?” she asked, startled.   
“I put them in my pockets, I didn’t want them to get dirty.”   
“Well put them on, the sun may be out but I shan’t have you catching cold! It’s nearly October, for goodness sake!”   
“Yes Miss Molly.” Hortense quietly dug her gloves out of her pockets as well.   
“Well, no harm done,” Molly sighed. “Nothing that can’t be cured with soap and water. Come along, we don’t want to miss your Uncle.” 

**221b Baker Street**  
“Hands washed, come on,” Molly hurried the girls inside. “Put up your things and then we’ll see if we can’t help Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Dickerson set up a tea tray.” Molly tugged off her gloves and hat, following them upstairs.   
“We can go ourselves,” Eugenia informed Molly.   
“I’ll take your things,” Hortense had them out of her hands before she could protest.   
“Very well, come down when you’re finished, bring your portfolio too, we’ll choose what pictures to show your Uncle.”   
As she checked her appearance quickly in the hall mirror, the bell rang.   
“I’ll get it, Mrs. Hudson,” she called before the housekeeper could be disturbed.   
At the door, a willowy gentleman stood, an umbrella on his arm. His eyes were sharp, and he carried with him a parcel.   
“Mr. Holmes, I presume?”   
“You presume correctly Miss Hooper,” he answered. She moved aside for him and he removed his hat at once, stepping in. “My brother tells me the children are most fond of you,” handing over his hat and gloves to her, he set his umbrella on the coat rack. “That alone speaks volumes of your character.” Molly studied him. He seemed nothing like her employer, but then too altogether too much like Sherlock Holmes. Tall and thin, good-looking and well-dressed. His eyes were keen, and he seemed to make himself the center of the room. One couldn’t help but notice him. Still, there was a quietness about Mycroft Holmes, a man comfortable to wait and see before making his opinion known. Molly felt that this was the sort of gentleman who could be a powerful ally and a dangerous enemy. There was a darkness about Mycroft Holmes she instantly did not like. His eyes looked very cold and cruel, and his smile was well-practiced. Still. If the children adored him, then he could not be a dangerous man, not truly. Or at least to her.   
“I’m fond of the girls as well,” Molly answered. He studied her the same way Sherlock did, only his gaze did not seem as piercing. He seemed merely to wish to understand her character, file the information and proceed accordingly. Sherlock looked at her as if she were an exhibit. Still, it was unnerving to be so studiously gazed at, and Molly lowered her eyes to the floor.   
“I have sent for a tea tray, I was about to go and see if it was ready, the girls will be downstairs in a moment, they wanted to show you some of their sketches.”   
“Ah, then I shall wait in the parlor-“ Molly’s expression made him stop. He glanced at the part-way shut door. “I take it my brother has been…re-decorating again?”  
“He is between cases at the moment, he returned late last night and I believe spent some time taking down his spiders’ web. Doctor Watson wants him on a bit of sick-leave, Mr. Holmes has managed to crack two ribs, and suffers a number of contusions.”  
“Nothing more serious than that, I hope,” Mycroft quirked his brow.   
“He turned his ankle as well, nothing serious, he’s to keep off it for part of the day, but,” she looked at the door to the basement and shrugged. “I don’t know as he’s capable of not standing when he’s not busy.”   
“Indeed,” Mycroft nodded. “The drawing room will do then,” and he let himself through.   
In a few moments the girls came tramping down the stairs, portfolios in their arms, curls flying behind them as they ran to the drawing room.   
“Uncle Mycroft! Uncle Mycroft!” they chorused and Molly smiled, seeing the otherwise all-business-like gentleman transition from rather dour and serious to kind and warm.   
“Well, well,” he bent so each could press his thin cheeks, and then took their hands, pressing their fingers. “How are the youngest Holmes ladies today?”  
“Very well, thank you,” Eugenia answered.   
“Your governess tells me you have sketches to show me,”   
“Oh yes!” Hortense took her favorite drawing. “We have been studying Abyssinia, and I drew a map of it.”   
“Mmmhmm I see,” he answered. “What else has Miss Hooper been teaching you?” he glanced at the woman who had seated herself in the corner.   
“She’s teaching us arithmetic, and science and history and geography and art and how to be ladylike.”   
Molly sat in the corner window-seat, content to read her book, out of the way of the family. She was surprised when she heard herself addressed by Mr. Holmes, and looked up.   
“They tell me you are a pianist.”  
“Oh goodness, no,” Molly shook her head. “I can play a little. Hermia’s the one who has been helping me really, her lessons with Mrs. Watson are truly beginning to show her talent.”   
“My brother is a violinist,” Mycroft replied, setting aside his teacup and folding his hands in his lap. “Quite accomplished.”  
“I have heard him, he plays at all hours,” Molly said. “I-I don’t mean that his playing is dreadful. He keeps odd hours at any rate, I have gotten used to it, actually. It’s lovely to hear him play,” she paused, and again felt the heavy gaze of Mycroft Holmes on her. “He plays so well; I am surprised he never wanted to do anything more with it.”   
“Oh no, far too ordinary for him to perform in an orchestra. It would mean answering to someone else, and he has never quite tolerated having to be under someone’s thumb.”  
“Yes, I see,” Molly nodded.   
“You seem quite thoughtful, Miss Hooper,” Mycroft said suddenly. “I trust nothing is wrong, nothing with the children.” Both girls were at the table across the room, both drawing a picture for their Uncle and his new wife. They had yet to meet their Aunt Anthea, and had speculated much on what sort of woman she was. After a brief description from their Uncle they decided to sketch the woman straight away and send him home with the present.   
“I had some troubling news today,” Molly answered. “I don’t know as it’s true or not, I have been meaning to read the paper and see if there was any report on it.”  
“What news is that?”  
“There,” she stopped then, glancing at the girls. Gathering her skirts, she took the seat opposite him. Seeing the change in her demeanor, that she wished to confide in him, he gestured to the tea.   
“I beg your pardon, would you be so kind?” she nodded, taking the teapot and pouring him a cup.   
“There have been reports,” she said, low. “That there is an epidemic of scarlet fever,”  
“Some reports have been made,” he nodded, taking the cup from her.   
“So it’s true then?” Molly gasped softly. “Shouldn’t we tell Mr. Holmes? Should we not get out of London?”  
“There have been reports,” Mycroft repeated. “And I should keep careful watch over the girls. Be extra cautious about whom they spend time with, I trust it cannot be more than the two or three families they mingle with at the park,” Mycroft added and she nodded.   
“No, there hasn’t been anyone new.”  
“Take extra care with the washing,” Mycroft added. “Hands and faces cleaned after they go out, before bed, et-cetera.”   
“Yes, yes,” Molly nodded. “What about their father? Mr. Holmes comes in from all over, and Doctor Watson must see many patients.”  
“One cannot be paranoid,” Mycroft cautioned her. “There is no reason for the family to flee for the country as of yet. I should tell my brother if there were.”  
“How can you be certain?” Molly asked incredulously. “Who have you spoken to?” Mycroft Holmes smiled quite pleasantly at her then.   
“My brother did tell me you were outspoken; I rather think Mrs. Hudson is pleased to have someone on her side at last.” Molly almost rolled her eyes. “That was the trouble with the other nannies I think,” Mycroft continued. “They all were far too thin-skinned and much too afraid of their employer.”  
“I am more afraid of this epidemic,” Molly insisted.   
“It is hardly an epidemic,” Mycroft said, and held up his hand, cautioning her. “Be careful how you phrase things, Miss Hooper, or people truly will believe there is reason to panic when there is none.”  
“But-“  
“It is true,” Mycroft interrupted her. “We have had more than the usual amount of reports of scarlet fever this year, for this time of year as well, but it is not an epidemic, not yet.”  
“An outbreak, then,” Molly amended and Mycroft nodded. “For how long?”   
“Since July,” he answered. “it’s been the cause of death more often lately than before. Death-rates due to the illness have picked up, somewhat, between July and September, but nothing so drastic that we should issue a warning.”   
“Who? Who would issue this warning?” Molly demanded. “Where is your information from?”  
“The Chief Medical Officer,” Mycroft replied, blinking. “My brother hasn’t told you, has he? I expect not. I occupy a minor position in the British government.”  
“Minor indeed, if your information is from Sir Richard Thorne Thorne.” Mycroft merely blinked again, deciding silence was the most telling answer, and what she chose to do with it was entirely up to her. She smiled then, and he was almost glad to know she didn’t believe his lie for a moment. He was glad she was clever, glad that she was astute. At last! His little brother had hired someone competent to look after his nieces! “You will send a message,” Molly said finally. “If the situation changes?”  
“You have already contracted the disease I trust?”  
“When I was nine, I was very fortunate to survive it.”   
“There is no reason to fear, if you take care with the girls’ hygiene,” Mycroft assured her. Molly nodded, fears somewhat alleviated. 

Sudden footsteps in the hall made everyone turn. Jimmy, the hall boy entered, behind him was Inspector Lestrade, quite out of breath.   
“Where is Mister Holmes?” the detective asked.   
“The lab,” Molly stood and Mycroft was on his feet at once. “Shall I fetch him?”  
“If you please,” Lestrade answered, out of breath. “There’s been a murder, he’s needed immediately.” Eugenia and Hortense were wide-eyed, staring at the inspector.   
“I’m afraid Mr. Holmes cannot,” Molly answered. “He’s on sick-leave, he’s been injured-“  
“If he could just look at the scene,” Lestrade insisted. “He’ll want to see this,”  
“I know he may want to,” Molly answered tightly. “He’s just come home, he’s suffering cracked ribs and a turned ankle-“  
“Please,” Lestrade begged. “It’s almost exactly the same as his previous case. We think it might-“  
“Calm yourself, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft admonished the man. “Miss Hooper is merely thinking of her employer’s wellbeing. If it is so serious, might I suggest you find Doctor Watson? He has accompanied my brother on all his cases, and is still in possession of the previous case notes. Surely he wouldn’t mind letting you borrow them to compare.”  
“Yes, yes of course,” Lestrade nodded.   
“What’s all this?” Sherlock asked, coming to stand in the doorway. Hermia bore three new clay pots, each containing a new sprouting plant, two reeked of sulfur. “What has happened, Lestrade?”  
“Murder, sir.” Sherlock Holmes eyes glittered.   
“The same as before? She’s been caught, surely,”  
“But it’s all the same,” Lestrade shook his head. “Everything, body position, time of death-“  
“Cause of death?”  
“Strangu- er…” Lestrade glanced at the three wide-eyed children all staring at him. “Same,” he cleared his throat. “I know you’re on sick-leave, but if you could just look at the scene,”  
“Yes of course-“  
“Mister Holmes-“   
“Sherlock really, is this wise- oh forgive me-“ both Mycroft and Molly spoke at once, then he stopped, realizing he’d spoken over her. She glanced at him, surprised at his manners.   
“Mister Holmes,” she began again, addressing her employer. “Are you certain?”  
“Of course I am. Mrs. Hudson!” The housekeeper appeared in the doorway.  
“Mister Holmes?”  
“Coat and hat, I’m off in a few moments,”   
“Yes sir,” she glanced at the room then went out, shaking her head.   
“Papa what about the plants?” Hermia asked.   
“Oh,” he looked at the box in her arms. “I’ve written down what needs doing,” he set the paper in the box. “We’ll check them tomorrow at breakfast, remember what to look for?” She nodded.   
“Well, well, experiment on plants?” Lestrade asked. Mrs. Hudson appeared holding Sherlock’s hat and coat.   
“Papa is helping me. We’re studying the growth rate on unassisted and otherwise plants.”   
“I see!”   
“This is my eldest,” Sherlock nodded, struggling into his coat. “Hermia, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade, one of Scotland Yard’s few, competent police.”   
“Very pleased to meet you,” Lestrade said. Hermia balanced the box on her arm and shook his outstretched hand.   
“Make sure Papa doesn’t do any running today,” she instructed him. “He’s turned his ankle and Doctor Watson will scold him if he hurts himself anymore.”  
“We’ll have to pick up Watson on the way,” Sherlock spoke up then.   
“I’ll see to it he behaves himself,” Lestrade promised Hermia. “Best of luck with your plants.”   
“Thank you,” she answered. Molly, seeing Sherlock still struggling into his coat, took hold of the collar, helping settle it at his neck. She brushed his shoulders, smoothing out any creases.   
“Stop twisting before you do yourself a harm,” she chastised. “And don’t bend over when you go to inspect the body, keep your back straight, you’ll never heal properly otherwise.”   
“Thank you,” he murmured. She left him then, rounding the table and seating herself. Mycroft noticed his brother’s lingering gaze on Miss Hooper. Lestrade cleared his throat, he had noticed as well, but said nothing.   
“Say goodbye to your father,” Molly said and the girls all hurried to him. “Likely he’ll be late tonight.” Hermia stood on a chair to kiss her father’s cheek.   
“Don’t bend over,” she instructed him.   
“Yes, I had better not. I think Miss Hooper has scolded me enough.” Molly looked up, hearing her name, and was surprised to see Sherlock looking at her, his eyes twinkling in amusement.   
“Come along, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said, heading for the door. “Good day,” he paused then, realizing he had not been introduced to the governess. “I beg your pardon we were never properly introduced,” he said. She was certainly pretty!  
“Oh, yes, this is the governess, Molly Hooper, Lestrade, now we really-“   
“A pleasure,” the Inspector interrupted Sherlock, reaching out to shake Molly’s hand, smiling at her. “It’s nice to see such a pretty face brightening up Baker Street.”   
“It’s a pleasure to work here,” she answered, and Sherlock was confused when her cheeks bloomed. He was surprised (and surprised at himself that he was upset) that Lestrade seemed to be the cause of Miss Hooper’s pretty blush.   
“Yes, well, we’d best be going,” Sherlock stepped between them. “I shall be back as soon as I can.” He turned to Molly then, about to speak, and then finding he had no words, shut his mouth and put his hat on. “Good day.” He said, clipped, and swept out. Lestrade nodded goodbye to the rest of them and followed him.   
“Good heavens,” Mycroft said as Molly picked up the tea tray.   
“What?”   
“Never mind,” Mycroft shook his head. “Now, Hermia, I trust you’ll share with me what your experiment is.”   
“Oh yes!” and the little girl launched into her explanation again, showing off her favorite plants and which she thought would do best. 

**That Night**  
“Is Papa going to be gone all night, do you think?” Hortense asked as Molly helped her into her nightgown.   
“I don’t know, he sent a message just before dinner that he was taking supper with the Watson’s, and would be home later, so I expect Doctor Watson talked him out of taking a heavy hand in the case from Inspector Lestrade.” She smiled at the little girl. “There, all set, go and brush your teeth, and then choose a story for bed. Eugenia?” She turned to find her struggling out of her dress. “Goodness, hold on a moment,” she helped her unbutton the long row down the back before helping her wriggle out of the dress. “There!” Molly laughed. “You’ve worked yourself into a flush! Go put your nightgown on, quick, before you catch cold!”   
“May I have a drink of water please? I’m so thirsty,” Eugenia pleaded.   
“Of course you may,” Molly touched the top of her head. “Go finish getting ready for bed, I’ll go and get the tray.”   
She returned to find Hermia tucking her sisters into bed.   
“Thank you, Hermia, what a good sister you are!” She set the tray down, leaving a glass of water on each of their nightstands. “Now, into bed with you, I’ll tuck you in.” Once Hermia was settled, Molly went to the chair by the fireplace. “Hortense, what story did you decide on?”  
“Grimm’s Fairy Stories,” she answered, already tired. The book had been placed on the table by the chair, so Molly took it, finding where they had left off. 

As usual, Molly read aloud to them, this time telling the wonderful story of six princes turned to swans, and a terrible curse that had to be undone in seven years time. As usual, Hortense and Eugenia fell asleep first, leaving Hermia to watch Molly rock gentle in the chair, the book on her lap. Once the story was finished, she whispered quietly, telling her governess all about her lovely day spent with her father.   
“I can see what a time you had,” Molly said, picking up her work basket. “Your eyes are shining, and my was rosy cheeks! Are you warm, dear?”  
“A little, but it’s been warm all day,” Hermia said.   
“Well, never mind,” Molly got up, moving the fire screen in place to block some of the heat from the beds. “There. That’s better. Have a drink of water, and go to sleep.” Hermia obeyed, but she couldn’t fall asleep. Molly spoke softly as she tended to her mending. Hermia liked it almost as much as spending time with her father. Almost. Miss Molly would talk about her own father, and what it was like to grow up with just the two of them. She fell asleep, listening as Miss Molly told a favorite childhood memory. 

A gentle knock on the door startled Molly, and she looked up.   
“Oh, you’re back!” she said quietly and Sherlock nodded.   
“I…hoped I wasn’t too late to read to them.”  
“Oh,” they looked at the girls fast asleep. She smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid they were done in quite early today. All the excitement of their uncle coming to visit, I expect.”   
“Yes. Probably. He has always been very good to them.” He lingered in the doorway, and she realized he wanted to say goodnight to them. Gathering her mending, she smiled, stepping past him into her room. Sherlock bent, kissing Hermia and then Eugenia, and finally Hortense. Molly returned after he had straightened, his arm on his waist as he winced in pain.   
“May I ask a favor?” he seemed embarrassed.   
“Of course,” she nodded. “If I cannot perform it, I shall tell you so.”  
“I need to be wrapped again,” he said. “I meant to have Watson do it, but it escaped me until I had returned home, and I find I am loath to call him, not when we’ve the bandages here, and…”   
“Yes…” she nodded, understanding. “I-I suppose I can.” She followed him to the parlor where the necessary items were laid out.   
“I tried to do it earlier when I came home, but I don’t have the right angle…”   
“Yes, right, well, let’s just…see to it, shall we?” she waited for him to undress, her face growing redder by the minute. She helped him out of his shirt and laid it aside, commenting that his cuffs were in a sad state. Handing her the roll of bandages, he waited, trying to be amused at her blush (he himself was rather nervous, and was upset that he was so). It wasn’t anything to do with the fact that she was the governess. It was more to do with that he had promised himself long ago that he would never become involved with another woman. “The bandages should be tight, but not painfully so.”  
“Right,” she nodded. “Just, tell me if I hurt you.”   
“Not to worry.” Round and round the bandage went around his torso. Trying to ease the tension, he listed all the different muscles and organs located there, and was pleasantly surprised when Molly corrected him on several.   
“I used to study my father’s medical books.”  
“He was not a successful doctor,” Sherlock stated. She tugged a little too hard on the bandages and he grunted.  
“Sorry,” she glanced up at him, not looking at all that she was. “He was a good doctor,” she insisted of her father. “He simply didn’t demand his patients pay him. He treated the ones that often could not afford it, but one can’t live on gratitude. He did his best, but much like sad, but hopeful Dickensian characters, we lived poorly, but happy that he was doing good work.”  
“That was why your mother left?” Molly looked up, her cheek almost against his bare chest as she reached around him, looping the bandage again.   
“Yes, sir,” she lowered her gaze again. Sherlock tried very hard not to feel the warmth radiating off of her. She smelled faintly of perfume.  
“Lavender.” he blurted out. She looked up, surprised, and then shook her head.   
“Er, yes, Mrs. Watson gave me a bottle a little while ago.”  
“There are notes of citrus as well, if I am not mistaken.”   
“I-I suppose there are,” she stared at her hands, trying to concentrate on tying the bandages off. Oh this was such an awful, awful idea of his, her doing this. Why hadn’t she said no?!   
“It suits you, Molly.” Something in his voice made her look up. He’d spoken with such a reverence, such quiet confidence. The timber of his voice, the way he gazed down at her, the way he said her name left her breathless, and quite unable speak for a moment.   
“Thank you.” If she drew a deep enough breath, her breast would be touching his. Molly Elizabeth Hooper! She shut her eyes, taking a careful breath. Slowly, somehow, she managed to step back, forcing herself to fold her hands together. “Now, I think I had better go up and see to the children. I will say goodnight.”  
“Goodnight.” He nodded, reaching for his shirt. Molly fled upstairs without another look. Sherlock stared at the empty doorway. What on earth was he doing?! It must have been seeing her care for the children. That was all. He was confusing her roles. Just because she looked after the children did not automatically make her a wife-type as well! No matter how beautiful, or clever, or charming she was. Irene had been all those things and look where it got him.   
No. Things were fine just as they were. Molly Hooper was a mere member of his staff, employed to raise the children. In ten years or so, she would be gone. He could last as long as that, certainly. It simply meant keeping her at arm’s length. 

Arm’s length. Hah! 

A moment ago she’d been so close to him he could have simply bent his head and kissed her. If he wanted to. Which he didn’t.   
Sighing heavily, he picked up his discarded waistcoat and jacket, put out the lamps, and headed upstairs. Too much wine with dinner, that was all. 

Lord even he didn’t believe _that_.


	6. We Must Not Panic

Breakfast at the Watson’s was usually a quiet affair. Doctor Watson would read aloud the interesting stories and pieces of news while Mary fed Tobias and Emma. It was just such a morning, the family happily getting on with their meal when they heard a pounding on the front door. Mary looked up from spooning porridge into baby Tobias mouth.  
“A patient at this hour?” she asked with a frown.  
John folded the paper, checking his pocket watch for the time. “No rest for the wicked,” he shrugged. Just as he was getting to his feet, the maid entered, looking somewhat troubled. “Yes, Simmons, what is it?”  
“It’s Mister Holmes, sir.” Her expression was so very strange that John was on his feet in an instant, Mary set aside the spoon.  
“Simmons, finish feeding the children,” she said. “Doctor Watson and I will be out-“  
“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Watson, but Mister Holmes is here,” the maid clarified. “But he won’t come in, not to the dining room, not near you or the babies.”  
“What the devil,” John muttered, tossing his napkin aside he hurried out to the front hall.

Sherlock stood by the front door, apparently he’d dressed in a hurry. He didn’t look to be under the influence of anything, but that didn’t stop Watson from approaching his friend, checking his pulse, dilation of eyes (normal) and to see if he was suffering a temperature.  
“Holmes?” Watson spoke gently. “Holmes what is it?”  
The consulting detective blinked, taking a breath. “The children are sick,” he managed at last. “Quite sick. Miss Hooper has quarantined Hermia and Hortense, Eugenia is not…but the others have high temperatures,” while he spoke his hands had not stopped rifling through the pockets of his coat and trousers.  
“What are you looking for?’ Watson asked, somewhat alarmed by the state of his friend. He had was unaccustomed to seeing Sherlock Holmes in a panic.  
“Their symptoms of course!” Holmes snapped. “Miss Hooper wrote them down,” he found the slip of paper at last in his breast pocket and handed it over to Watson.  
John took it, motioning for Sherlock to follow him to his surgery.  
Watson took down his bags and opened them, removing vials and taking other down from the shelves to replace them. Watson was saying what he was bringing along, that Holmes was wise not to come all the way into the house. It all blurred, the rattling of glass bottles and opening and closing cupboards. Sherlock was lost in thought.

_Earlier that morning, 221b Baker Street  
A sharp rapping on Sherlock’s door in the morning woke him up. Cracking an eye open, he saw that it was just barely dawn, judging by the light beginning to creep through the partly open curtain.  
“Mrs. Hudson, it is not eight o’clock,” he groaned.  
“It’s not Mrs. Hudson, it’s Miss Hooper, you’re needed, urgently!” There was something more in her tone that made him sit up. With a grunt, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. Even as he did this, she knocked again.  
“All in good time!” he called, temper short. He reached for his dressing gown, deciding she would not thank him for answering the door half-naked. Again. Pulling open the door, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. To his surprise, Miss Hooper was still in her dressing gown as well.  
She lost no time in explaining either, “Hermia and Hortense both have a fever.”  
He blinked, now quite awake.  
“You’re certain?”  
She nodded. Immediately he shut his door, heading down the hall to the nursery. Miss Hooper was close behind, talking all the while, almost running to keep up with him:  
“Their faces are very red, and Hortense has the beginnings of a rash on her neck. I haven’t checked Hermia, but she complains of a sore throat, the rash cannot be long in coming now- where are you going?!” He scrambled for the door, but she managed to get around him to stand in front of him, hands on either side of the doorway.  
He towered over her. “Miss Hooper, move.”  
She did not budge. “I have had scarlet fever, sir, and that is most likely what this is. I don’t risk infection from them. Do you?” she asked.  
He thought hard, trying to remember a time in his childhood that he contracted such a disease. He could not remember.  
“I don’t know,” he confessed.  
She nodded then, folding her arms across her middle, turning towards the hall.  
“I’ve moved Eugenia to the guest room. She doesn’t have a fever, yet. If she could be taken somewhere else to stay, perhaps Doctor Watson-“  
Sherlock was already shaking his head no.  
“They have Tobias and Emma to think of. Eugenia may only be a carrier; we cannot expose them. My brother will take her to his house in Sussex.”  
“So far away?” Molly asked softly. Eugenia and Hortense were never far from the other. Molly was sure neither had ever been separated before.  
“I think it necessary,” Sherlock continued. In his bare feet he strode down the hall. “Jimmy!” he bellowed. Scuffling from below could be heard from the kitchen. “Get up! Go and fetch Lord Mycroft! Jimmy!”  
Molly ran into the nursery, snatching a slip of paper and scribbling furiously before hurrying back out to the hall, in time to see the hall boy stumble from the kitchen, tugging on his cap and shoving his feet into his boots.  
“It’s an emergency,” Molly said, leaning over the railing. She handed him the note. “Ask him to send a carriage if he cannot come himself, and that Miss Eugenia will be ready when it arrives. They are not to stay in London.”  
“Yes Miss Hooper.” In a flash he was out the front door and running down the street, flagging down a cab.  
Molly returned to the hallway where Sherlock stood.  
“Sir,” she came around him, putting herself between him and the door. “Until we know for certain, you cannot come in to the nursery.” He was staring at the partway open door; he could hear his children crying.  
Hermia sobbed in her sleep, Hortense whimpered in her bed, complaining of her temperature. Molly cast one last fearful glance to Sherlock and then hurried into the room again.  
In a moment, the children were soothed, Sherlock could hear her speaking quietly to them. She returned to the doorway and he stepped back.  
“Eugenia’s bag is all packed, she’ll need help dressing,” Molly said softly. “See to Eugenia,” she said before shutting the door.  
Down the hall, the guest room door opened quietly, and Eugenia stood rubbing her eyes.  
“Papa?” He turned with a start, hearing her soft voice. “Why am I not in the nursery?” she asked sleepily. “Where are my sisters?”  
“They aren’t feeling well right now,” he answered carefully. “We mustn’t have you getting ill now either, so Miss Hooper got you settled in the guest room.”  
“I don’t want to go back to sleep. Who’s sick? Where’s Hortense?” Sensing a fit of tears, Sherlock held out his hand and she went to him, slipping her little fingers in his.  
“You needn’t go back to sleep if you don’t want to,” he said gently. “But your Uncle Mycroft is coming to bring you to Sussex for a special treat.”  
“Just me?” Eugenia asked.  
“Just you.” He led her back to the guest room, finding her clothes were laid out, beside a neatly packed suitcase.  
She was dressed and waiting downstairs by the time Mycroft’s carriage arrived. Sherlock was not surprised in the least to see his elder brother climb down. Jimmy hopped down off the back, rushing into the kitchen to help Mrs. Dickerson. Mycroft let himself in the front, not even bothering to removed= his gloves or hat. “You have not been around the others, have you?” he asked his brother.  
“No,” Sherlock replied. “I cannot recall if I have had it before and Miss Hooper would not let me in.”  
“Good,” Mycroft seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “You haven’t had scarlet fever before,” Mycroft informed him. “You’ll have to fetch Doctor Watson, Jimmy should stay and help Mrs. Dickerson.” He picked up Eugenia, who was falling asleep in the chair by the door. “She has not expressed any symptoms?” he asked, referring to Eugenia in his arms.  
“No,” Sherlock answered. “Miss Hooper removed her immediately from the room, she should have had them by now, don’t you think?”  
“Perhaps,” Mycroft agreed. He paused as Eugenia shifted her head, sighing in her sleep. “She’ll be safe in the country, there haven’t been any reports of fever there.” He studying his brother. “I…don’t suppose we could convince you to come with us?” At once, Sherlock refused, and Mycroft could not blame him. “Very well,” he nodded. “Then you must be extra careful. Listen to Doctor Watson, and Miss Hooper.”  
“Yes I know,” Sherlock murmured. He said no more, watching his brother take his daughter down to the carriage. Inside, Anthea was waiting, she took the child from Mycroft, laying her on the seat beside her while Mycroft handed the suitcase up to the driver. In a moment they were gone, and Molly was calling for someone to fetch Doctor Watson, immediately._

“Holmes?”  
Hearing his name, he turned with a start, realizing Watson had been talking to him.  
“Sorry, what?”  
“I said have you had scarlet fever before?” He wanted dearly to answer ‘yes’, surely he could be of help in the nursery then. But if he contracted it, then he would simply be in the way.  
“No.”  
“All right then,” Watson nodded. “You’ll have to be quarantined from the children then,” Holmes made to protest, but Watson refused to listen. “Holmes, I must put my foot down, I really must. I won’t have you bringing this to an epidemic because you could not control yourself.”  
Holmes was on his feet, a pained expression on his face. “I cannot be forbidden to see them; these are my children-”  
“Yes,” Watson interrupted. “Yes, they are your children, and they are very ill. They need their father to remain healthy, so he can keep looking after them.”  
“But will they survive?” Holmes pressed.  
“I don’t know until I see them,” Watson answered.  
Sherlock blinked, unable to fathom for a moment that Watson was unsure. He took hold of his arm, “You mean you might not be able to cure them-“  
“I am a doctor, not a bloody god of medicine!” Watson erupted, frustrated. “There is no cure for scarlet fever, you know that, Holmes.” He took a breath, calming himself. “Hermia and Hortense are good, healthy, strong girls. If we can break the fever, then they will stand a very good chance. But not if you intend on bursting into the nursery and disrupting my procedure.” Woodenly, Holmes sat down again. “Do you hear me? Holmes.” Sherlock looked up at the doctor then, for at that moment, Watson was not a friend or a comrade, but spoke as a doctor who knew best. “If you intend to stay, you are to stay away from the nursery, you will touch nothing that goes in, and especially nothing that comes out, do you understand? Not a dish, not a cup, not a handkerchief, do you understand?”  
“Yes, Watson.”  
“Good,” he took down his hat. “Then let’s go.”

 **221b Baker Street**  
“What can I do?” Sherlock asked. “Watson, John-“ he touched his arm then, keeping him from heading immediately up the stairs. “As a father to a father, by God, give me something to do or I shall tear this house to pieces, I will-“ his gaze flicked to the mantelpiece, where once an oblong box had sat, containing a needle and vial. Where it had been put, Watson did not know, but he knew his friend well enough to recognize a very dire situation indeed.  
“Help Mrs. Dickerson,” Watson instructed. “Wear a mask, and gloves and an apron. The children’s clothing will need to be steamed in the oven at two hundred and twenty degrees, for two hours, do you understand? It won’t singe the fabric, but it will purify it. Everything of theirs, and they will need fresh linens. Do not, and this is important,” Watson clarified. “Do not touch anything that comes downstairs in a hamper with your bare hands. Smock, mask, gloves.”  
Sherlock nodded, promising he would.  
“Their toys, the soft animals, rabbits, bears, dolls, they will have to be burned,” Watson continued. “Everything. Has Eugenia’s clothing been removed?”  
“No, only her suitcase,” Sherlock replied.  
“Send a cable to your brother, everything of hers should be treated the same as Hermia and Hortense: steamed in the oven at two-twenty for two hours.” With that, Watson removed his hat and took the stairs two at a time. Sherlock, for his part, headed to the basement to fetch his smock and gloves. He could fashion a mask, surely out of something down there.

In the nursery, Watson was pleased to see a roaring fire in the fireplace, and Miss Hooper was bathing the girls’ foreheads.  
“There is clean water and soap in the washroom,” she said as Watson threw off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. When he washed, he returned and opened his bag.  
“Temperature?”  
“I don’t know, we haven’t a thermometer, I could only guess, but almost a hundred,” Molly stood, letting him look at each of the children.  
“How long?”  
“I think some time in the night, perhaps early last evening. Hortense complained of being cold, and she was not hungry, but she had such a long day, I did not take into account that it was illness as the cause.”  
“No indeed, one never assumes the worst at first,” Watson said. “You have done right, keeping them together, and separating the others.”  
“I changed their linens, and put them aside,” Molly continued, and he saw the bag in the corner. “I think Hortense contracted it first, I have seen the signs of rash already on her neck. Both complain of sore throats, and seem to suffer from delusions.”  
“Signs of paranoia?”  
“Distress,” Molly answered, and Watson nodded.  
“Let’s bath them, one at a time, see if that will not bring down their temperatures somewhat. Have you administered anything to them at all?”  
“Just broth that Mrs. Hudson sent up, but they couldn’t seem to keep it down.”  
“No, not at this stage, anything meat-based is too strong yet for them.” Watson replied. “I should like to keep an eye on Hortense as well, patients who experience change of temperature faster are often prone to dropsy, I should like to avoid that, especially in one so small.”  
Molly nodded, “Tell me what to do.”  
Watson glanced up, having washed his hands again. “Hermia has a more severe case, ulcerated throat is a clear sign, I should like to keep her to a treatment of nitre and ammonia carbonate, it should be given in two to five grain doses. I’ve brought plenty of both. For the first three days, we’ll keep them to barley water and toast for the time being, that should prove sufficient.”  
“Will we have to shave their heads do you suppose?’ Molly asked, fidgeting her hands. “Only…when I had it as a child, the doctor shaved my head.”  
Watson smiled gently. “I think we may keep them cool enough if we keep applying damp rags, and their heads elevated, time will tell.”  
He carried Hermia first to the washroom and set her in the tub. The water was lukewarm, and immediately the child began to sob, shaking from head to toe.  
“Miss Hooper, your assistance for a moment, please,” Watson called, and Molly hurried in. “She doesn’t recognize me,” Watson said. “Try and calm her.” At once she knelt by the tub, stroking Hermia's rosy cheeks, speaking softly as Watson bathed her head and neck. Pushing aside her long hair, he noted under her ears the beginnings of the rash, and pointed it out to Molly. "Let us hope the fever reaches crisis soon," he murmured. Molly did not stop speaking to Hermia, but her eyes were wild with fright. What if the fever was a slow build to peak? Seeing her worry, Watson dismissed her gently, "See to Hortense now, I can manage Hermia myself."  
"Yes Doctor Watson," wiping her hands on her apron, she quickly fled the washroom as she wiped her eyes.

Downstairs, Sherlock stood at the foot of the stairs, smock and gloves in hand. Below stairs in the kitchen, Mrs. Dickerson was boiling water and soaking linens. Mrs. Hudson flitted from room to room, worrying her hands and trying to keep busy with any number of tasks that were ultimately of no use to anyone.  
“Mrs. Hudson, perhaps you will make an infusion of barley water for them,” Sherlock said, when the housekeeper passed by him for the third time. “I am told it is good for their stomachs.”  
“Yes,” the housekeeper nodded immediately. “Yes of course, that is what I shall do. What are you doing?” she paused, halfway to the kitchen. Sherlock heaved a sigh, listening once more to the muffled voices of Watson and Molly upstairs.  
“I am helping Mrs. Dickerson purify their clothes and linens,” he answered, donning his smock. He found a large kerchief, and folding it over, tied it as a mask under his eyes, covering his nose and mouth. Mrs. Dickerson had contracted scarlet fever as a girl, but she too wore an apron and gloves, for she knew that Mr. Holmes had never suffered the illness. Every precaution was being taken at Baker Street.

With nothing else to do, and the sound of his children crying upstairs, Sherlock set to work, rolling bags of clothes into the pots on the stove.


	7. Lay Down Your Head and Close Your Eyes

**East Sussex - the Holmes Estate**  
They made good time, reaching the estate near nightfall. The staff had been cabled, and so everything was made ready. Eugenia had been quiet for most of the trip, but when she at last set her sights on the great house, every window glowing with light, she couldn't help but gasp in delight. Some distance from the house surrounded by tall hedges, she could see the outline of a waterwheel and was confused. She asked her uncle, who explained that it powered the generators for the electricity. Eugenia was baffled. She knew that cables were sent by electricity, she knew that it could provide light, but she had only seen the single bulb experiment her father had performed for them in the parlor at Baker Street. She never knew it could provide so much light! How lovely the house looked!  
"Buckingham Palace has recently finished being wired with it," Mycroft said. "Very soon, I expect Baker Street to be as well."  
"Oh won't that be lovely?" Eugenia sighed. She had not taken her eyes off the house as the carriage made its way up the long drive. Anthea and Mycroft exchanged soft smiles, glad that for a moment the child could be distracted from the grief of the forced separation from her family.  
Supper was a quiet affair, the three of them sitting at the great table. The meal was delicious, and quite unlike anything she had eaten before, she supposed it was what well-off people ate, and she did her best to appreciate it. Still, she did wish, to herself, that she was enjoying one of Mrs. Dickerson's simple, filling meals. As she sat there, waiting for a footman to bring around the last course, Eugenia was suddenly overcome with a startling realization.

_There was no one to put her to bed!_

There was no Miss Hooper to help her into her nightgown (indeed she had realized she had not seen her suitcase since she had stepped down from the carriage), no one to tuck her in, bring her a drink of water, to say nothing of the fact that her precious velveteen rabbit was missing! And what about a bedtime story? She could not possibly fall asleep without a bedtime story, especially with her beloved bed-mate missing!

Eugenia glanced between the two adults, waiting for a lull in their conversation to intercede. At last, just as the fruit and cheese were brought in, both adults paused to pick up their glasses, and so Eugenia drew breath:  
"Uncle Mycroft?" He turned, inclining his head for her to continue. She was suddenly quite nervous. "Who will help me get ready for bed?"  
Mycroft for a moment was puzzled. A housemaid could obviously be found to do such a thing, after all, there could not be much to putting a child to bed. Anthea, however, seemed to know something he did not, and she touched his hand before he could answer Eugenia.  
"I shall help you," Anthea said with a gentle smile.  
But the child was not finished yet. "I have not seen my suitcase, is it upstairs?"  
"Your clothes must be purified first," Anthea answered her gently. "It isn't that you are sick, but your clothes were around your sisters, and they might carry germs, but rest assured there is something for you to sleep in tonight, I promise." Eugenia wanted to say more, that she could not sleep without a story, nor indeed her rabbit. She and Hortense shared the toy, and in Miss Molly's haste to get her packed and out of the nursery, she had forgotten to put it in her case. But now her aunt and uncle were speaking again, so she remained silent.

Eugenia was fairly certain her aunt, who was lovely, had never tucked in a child before. Still, she smelled of rosewater and smiled kindly at her, telling her all sorts of marvelous things they could do the next day, and that gave Eugenia something to look forward to. The nightgown was one of her aunt's, and trimmed with beautiful lace and embroidery on the cuffs and collar.  
"There!" Anthea laughed, seeing the wrists hanging low. "Well I'm afraid there's nothing to be done for the hem, but the sleeves we can roll up, and tomorrow your things should be clean for you to wear."  
"Has Uncle Mycroft gotten word from Papa yet?" Eugenia wanted to know.  
Anthea smiled almost too brightly, smoothing down the bed covers. "Not yet, but I'm sure he'll send word as soon as he is able."  
"Will I be able to write to my sisters?"  
"Yes of course," Anthea smoothed Eugenia's curls. "I shall give you some of my stationary, and perhaps we might take a walk into the village later in the afternoon, and see that it's sent off straight away."  
Tired, Eugenia nodded halfheartedly. Tomorrow seemed an age away. Aunt Anthea did not seem to know what else was needed, stood, and bending over her, pressed a kiss to her forehead.  
"Now, if you need anything at all, just ring the bell, and someone will come."  
From the large bed, Eugenia watched her aunt swish over to the door.  
"Shall I leave the door open?" Anthea asked  
"Miss Molly always does," she answered softly, fingers barely peeping over the edge of the coverlet.  
"Then that is what I shall do, goodnight Eugenia." With that, Aunt Anthea was gone, rustling down the hall. Very faintly, she could hear her Uncle Mycroft speaking. She thought of her sisters back in London, both feverishly ill, and her father and Miss Molly. What if they got sick too? What if everyone died and she was left all alone? Eugenia scrunched her eyes shut, trying to forget such an awful, lonely, thought.

The hours crept by, and she watched the shadows from the windowpanes creep slowly along the edge of her bed. After a long while, she heard her Aunt and Uncle come upstairs, listening as they spoke in hushed tones. They passed her door, and went on down the hall. Hearing their door close, Eugenia stared at the ceiling. In a little while, there were soft footsteps, and she shrank down under the covers, wide-eyed. How she wished for her sisters! Hermia would proclaim the noise was nothing, and Hortense would swear it was a terrible villain they ought to charge after. Eugenia stayed frozen where she was, waiting for the footsteps to approach her door. Instead they passed by, and the lights shining from the hall went out. Now her room was lit only by the moon, and long shadows cast across her bed seemed like hands reaching for her. Throwing the covers over her head, she curled herself up tight, softly reciting a story Miss Molly often told.

It must have worked, for the next thing she knew, it was morning, and a maid was gently touching her shoulder.  
"Good morning Miss Eugenia," the woman said pleasantly.  
"Has Papa sent any letters?" the words tumbled out before she could stop them.  
The maid smiled kindly, and shrugged her shoulders.  
"I don't know miss, but you had best get up, breakfast is ready, and I'm to see you get dressed."  
"I haven't anything to wear, Aunt Anthea said my clothes were being 'purified'." She wrinkled her nose at the word.  
The maid smiled and held up one of Eugenia's dresses. "Freshly cleaned, pressed and ready for you, the rest of your things will be sorted today, but we saw to it you had everything you needed for this morning. Your shoes are downstairs for the moment, so the housekeeper went upstairs to see about finding you a pair, you might try them first, and if they don't fit we can put a little cardboard in the toes, until yours are cleaned up."  
Eugenia looked at the shoes, they were more like slippers, but they fit well enough, so she said nothing. Besides, if she did not like them, it would mean being confined to the house, and the sun was shining so brightly, Eugenia wanted to go outside.

Downstairs, Uncle Mycroft was at the breakfast table, reading the paper.  
"Where is Aunt Anthea?" she asked.  
The paper lowered, and he looked somewhat surprised. "Still abed I imagine. She is never up before nine." He watched with some amusement as Eugenia clambered up onto the chair, the table came up to the sailor's knot of her dress, even when she sat up straight. "Do you take tea?" he asked politely and she answered she did, and thanked the footmen who scurried to fetch her a cup. Mycroft had quite forgotten that Eugenia would not be able to reach the serving board, and he motioned for the butler to fetch her a plate. Over eggs and sheep's kidneys on toast (Eugenia said nothing of the oddness of it but ate what was given to her) Mycroft encouraged her to explore the estate.  
"There is a good deal to do, your Aunt has done a great deal of renovating to the garden, it is nearly October, but I believe the rose hips are still in bloom," he set aside his knife and fork, having such a mysterious look that Eugenia felt inclined to lean towards him as he whispered: "And if you look hard, you shall find a surprise there."  
"A surprise?" Eugenia squeaked, and Mycroft allowed himself to smile at the girl, truly amused.  
"That is what I said," he answered.  
She wiped her mouth, about to leap from the chair, then remembered her manners. "May I be excused please?"  
"You may," he nodded and watched as she wriggled out of the chair, too little to push back from the table, and run out of the dining room and upstairs for her coat and hat. "Jameson,"  
Hearing his name, the butler stepped forward. "Sir?"  
"See that a housemaid is employed to keep an eye out for Miss Eugenia, and find out if there is anything upstairs to amuse her. The weather has been fine lately, but there is no telling how long that will last."  
"Yes sir," the butler paused, and Mycroft looked, realizing he meant to say something else.  
"Yes?"  
"The staff and I were most grieved to learn of Miss Hermia and Miss Hortense' illness, and we hope it is not very serious." Mycroft was about to tell them it was none of their business, but then recalled that years ago, when Hermia was only four and Hortense and Eugenia were two, Sherlock had brought them to the estate. The staff had greeted them, many, including Jameson and indeed the cook, took a keen interest in them. Indeed Mycroft realized suddenly that Jameson asked often of the young Holmes ladies.  
He stood, setting aside his napkin. "Miss Hermia and Miss Hortense are gravely ill with scarlet fever, but they are in reliable hands and have always had exceptional constitutions, I expect them to come out of it a little worse for wear." He took up the paper, tucking it under his arm as he reached for his pocket watch, checking the time. "I trust you will convey this to the staff in your own time, should they wish to know, and I shall let you know if there is any change in the matter."  
"Yes sir, thank you, sir,"

**221b Baker Street, London**  
Molly and John had spent a sleepless night trading off Hermia and Hortense, carefully bathing them, spooning barley water into their mouths and swabbing the ulcers in Hermia's throat with a camel's hair pencil late that first night, and again early in the morning with a treatment of nitrate of silver mixed well with water. Cold rags were kept in constant supply for the girls' foreheads. Hot water bottles were on their feet at all hours, and Molly was grateful Doctor Watson was fastidious about keeping the girls on a regiment. Every six hours, he carried the girls one at a time to relieve themselves in the washroom.  
"It will do no good to sit in their mess, and it may well be helping remove the illness," he explained, so Molly endeavored to watch the clock.  
A light meal was sent up around two in the morning, so they took turns to rest and eat while the other watched the girls. Watson was too keyed up to sit and digest properly, but he and Miss Hooper needed their strength, so they ate and sat quietly, moving only when the girls began to fit. Hermia's temperature seemed to soar, and Hortense' followed shortly after.  
"I am concerned it may do damage to Hortense," Watson said. "The fever will soon cook her brain in her skull at this rate," he muttered, and apologized for being so macabre. It was early the second day, and poor Hortense was feverish, her bouts of delirium were considerably weaker than her sister's. "If it does not lessen by this afternoon, I will be forced to shave her head. How can we convey a message to Holmes?" Molly paid no mind to the doctor's bluntness. He had known the children since they were born, but the soldier in him seemed to keep his thoughts firmly on the task at hand, which she was grateful for, it helped her stay focused as well.  
"We can talk to him through the door," Molly suggested. In this fashion, they were able to keep Sherlock abreast of the treatment of his daughters. He wanted to know everything, from the ulcers in Hermia's throat to the texture of the rashes, the state of their delirium, if their bile was an unnatural hue.  
"Holmes," Watson called out, warning, then stopped himself. "I promise I will let you know if there is any serious change." It was quiet for a moment from the other side of the closed door.   
"Very well. Thank you Watson, Miss Hooper."

They listened for his retreating footsteps before turning back to the children.  
"It's his way of coping," Watson explained. "Though he does have a scientific interest, I am sure, and it is, to an extent. The virus itself is quite unique."  
"He has to think it out," Molly said, understanding. "He has several medical journals downstairs, I'm sure he has them in his lab. I knew purifying sheets and clothing would only occupy him for so long." Watson regarded the young woman as she changed cold clothes and checked the temperature of the water bottles. So few people in the world understood Sherlock Holmes, indeed that was why Watson had felt obliged to explain his friend's morbidly fascinated behavior as he inquired of scarlet fever. Yet Molly Hooper understood, she understood and accepted it, knowing it was how her employer would best deal with the crisis at hand.

Downstairs, Sherlock strayed between his laboratory and the kitchen. While upstairs he wore his mask and gloves at all times, deciding he would take no chances. In the laboratory, he tinkered. He studied the medical books in the library, forcing himself to read all of the effects the illness would have on his children. It took all his strength not to go running upstairs and demand Watson refrain from placing leeches on his children.

The first night was terrible, but he managed to keep busy, helping the cook purify linens and clothing and whatever else could be saved. Busy hands doing hard work kept him from thinking too deeply. He watched from the window as Jimmy carted out a sack of stuffed toys, watching with a sinking heart as one by one the girls' beloved dolls were tossed into the crackling flames. But there was nothing to be done for it. There would be other toys, but there would not be another Hermia or Hortense if care was not taken. So he turned and bent over his work, poking the great wash tub full of boiling water, stirring and stirring until Mrs. Dickerson said it was enough, then emptying the tub of water out the back, and setting it in the oven to steam. By dawn, his back ached, his legs were stiff and his fingers were cracked, but the clothes and linens were clean again, and they were laid aside. Only Mrs. Hudson or Mrs. Dickerson were permitted from now on to wash the girl's nightgowns and bedclothes as they came down from the nursery. Sherlock was sent out of the kitchen, the fear of too many contaminated items within reach being the main reason.

After hearing from Watson that if Hortense' temperature did not break, they would shave her head, Sherlock departed back downstairs and to his lab, carrying with him a list of the girls' symptoms, and an armload of books from the library. He could keep occupied, and he had never wished so fervently for a case to come. A case would mean keeping occupied, and he wouldn't have to be holed up in the house, being forced to listen to his children's cries, and him completely unable to help.

Late that evening, Molly held Hortense on her lap as Watson carefully cut her hair as close to her scalp as he could. In ten minutes all of her dark curls were gone. Molly took a cool rag, wiping away any stray locks, brushing the hairs from her little neck. Another damp rag was set directly on her head in the hopes it would soothe the fever.  
"What about Hermia?" Molly asked, carefully setting Hortense down.  
"She's older, it may not do as much damage, but we'll keep an eye on her," Watson said. "Her hair will have to be shaved anyway, it will fall after the fever." They sank into chairs placed at the ends of the beds, staring at the children. In most cases, the fever lasted four days. Molly could not think of anything but Hermia and Hortense, and how dearly she wanted to ease their pain. Hermia sobbed fitfully, became paranoid when placed in a lukewarm bath, and kicked the sheets in every direction when the hot water bottle was taken to be refilled. Hortense was quite the opposite. It seemed as if the fever was bleeding her of strength, she cried a little at first when she was given a bath, but after fell silent. She did not stir unless gently prodded. Her eyes regarded them much like dolls eyes, eerie, almost lifeless. The rash covered her body now, her cheeks were a flaming color. Her legs were swollen, and Watson fretted they had exposed her to a lukewarm bath too soon.  
"We should sponge her from now on," he instructed Molly. "I think it is too much for her, she is too small for it,"  
"You're worried for her." Molly didn't know how else to put it but telling him so. Watson of course was concerned for both children, as anyone would be. His attention was on Hortense though.  
"I am," he nodded at last. "I cannot say more than instinct, but she will have a harder time with this-" for the first time since he arrived, John was surprised to see tears fill Molly's eyes. She pressed her apron to her cheeks, quickly wiping her face.  
"I'm alright," she gasped. "I am fine. Tell me what to do."  
"I want to keep her head and legs elevated, her legs are swollen," they approached Hortense' bed, and he gently pressed against her ankle. A perfect indent of his thumb remained for a moment after he withdrew his hand. "This is dropsy," he said quietly. "I want to prevent it from reaching her chest."  
"What if it does?" Molly couldn't help but ask. She looked at Watson, who looked right back. There was something in his eyes that she could not place, and he drew breath, trying to steel himself for what he was about to say:  
"Then there is nothing I can do to make her departure from us easy, save morphia."

 **The Holmes Estate, East Sussex**  
Eugenia missed her sisters terribly, and as adults were wont to do, they told her things adults always tell children when they don't want them to worry. Which naturally meant that she should worry. She might have only been eight, but Eugenia knew when something was wrong. Still, she did try to do as Miss Molly taught her and mind her manners and not listen at keyholes. It wasn't that her aunt and uncle were unsympathetic, indeed they did their best to keep her occupied. Her first day there, she explored the garden, and found at the very center of it a door, hidden in a tall hedgerow, over-grown by creeping ivy. Peering through the thickly grown ivy, she found the keyhole, and peering through it, she ascertained that behind the locked door was a secret garden. What a prospect! What a lovely thing to explore on her own! With her new goal in mind, she went running to go and fetch the gardener, for her surely had a key to such a place. The elderly gentleman merely smiled, patted her head and sent her on her way, giving her a clue as to where she might look. She met with a stable-hand, who sent her running again with another clue to roll about in her head. She went scurrying all over the estate, eventually carrying a bucket of garden tools and seeds, and ending up at the door again, still very much without a key.  
"There you are," she turned with a start, seeing her uncle coming towards her in riding attire. "No luck yet?" she shook her head, looking quite forlorn. "Well never mind that for now, would you like to go for a ride?"  
"I don't know how to ride," Eugenia answered glumly, looking at her shoes. She so wanted to go into the secret garden, and was vastly disappointed she could not find the key yet. Her uncle chuckled, tugging on his gloves.  
"Shouldn't you like to learn?"  
At this, she lifted her head. "Oh yes, please!"  
"Very well, leave your gardening box here, Williams will see to it, we'll see about kitting you out for a riding lesson."  
So for the afternoon, she contented herself with learning to sit in a sidesaddle, how to urge the gentle bay pony forward, and how to stop it when she wanted to stop. The lesson was over far too soon, and Eugenia wished it could go on.  
"Why must we stop?" she asked, holding out her palm to the bay to nuzzle.  
"The horse gets tired," Mycroft explained. "You'll have another lesson tomorrow," he removed his glove, delving into his pocket for his watch. "Now though, your Aunt Anthea said she would help you write home, you're not too tired for that, are you?"  
"Oh no!" she threw her arms around her uncle, thanking him before making for the house, skirts flying behind her. He smiled, watching her go, glad he could provide distraction for the time being. Cables from Sherlock had begun to come in as his brother received word. Thus-far, Hortense was having a difficult time fighting the fever, and Hermia's throat was badly ulcerated. It was still too soon to tell the outcome, so everyone was forced into a suspended state, quite unable to make heads or tails of the situation. It was times like this that Mycroft hated most, when there was no discernible answer yet, and so no one could proceed accordingly. There was no specialist he could send for, Sherlock would not allow it, not even the Chief Medical Officer, if Mycroft called upon him. They were forced to go on as if nothing were the matter. Years of practice of forcing himself to remain calm despite the fire under his skin was all that seemed to keep him from railing about the estate like a madman.

The third day passed much the same as it had the second, Eugenia spent the day searching high and low for a key, until her uncle found her and took her for a riding lesson. He led the pony round and round the stable-yard, Eugenia keeping hold of the reigns just as he taught her.  
"Head up, keep your back straight, use your legs to keep your seat, you won't land as sharply when you come down as he trots." Eugenia took to horse-riding much the same as Anthea did, and Mycroft was genuinely amused by this. Both seemed to enjoy the idea of horses, and indeed the idea of riding, but when it came to it, they had no head for keeping all the facts and necessary lessons in mind when it came to the actual lessons. Still, Eugenia seemed to enjoy it, and so at the end of her second lesson, he presented her with the location of the key to a particular door she had been madly searching for the past two days. On light feet, with her bucket of garden tools Williams had left out for her, she unlocked the door and was rather dismayed to see overgrown shrubs, scrubby grass and dead leaves.  
"Oh."  
"Oh indeed," she turned, seeing Williams behind her. He wiped his hands on his trousers, stepping past her. "Nice here, innit?"  
"Well…it's not very pretty," Eugenia confessed.  
"No," Williams laughed. "Not yet."  
"Is it even alive?" she poked the branch of a bleak looking tree, looking with distaste at the bark that flaked away under her fingers.  
"Green and thriving," Williams nodded.  
Eugenia became somewhat indignant at this. "Well…aren't you the gardener?"  
"Oh yes," he nodded. "Out there. This was Mrs. Holmes particular spot, and she tended to it herself."  
"You mean Aunt Anthea?" Eugenia asked with a frown, unable to picture her fashionable aunt digging in the dirt.  
At this, Williams doffed his cap, shaking his head. "No, your grandmother, before she passed, bless her. This was her bit of earth."  
"Oh." Eugenia did not know her grandmother, nor her grandfather. She knew the latter was somewhere in India, happily settled in Bombay, or perhaps it was Bangalore. Her grandmother had died before she and Hortense were born. Eugenia suddenly remembered that Hortense and Hermia were back in London, still sick. She must have looked terribly sad, for Williams touched her shoulder briefly, nudging her out of her thoughts.  
"Ere now, what say we fix it up, eh? Something to do? Might do you good, keeping busy."  
"It's not my garden though," Eugenia still held the bucket of tools, and she felt foolish suddenly, for wanting to push into such a secret, private place when her sisters were unwell.  
"You've the key, haven't you?" Williams asked, and she nodded. "Your uncle wouldn't give it to anyone for any reason, not even me to mind the plants after your grandmother died. He must mean for you to look after it now," he shrugged his bony shoulders. "Leastwise that's the way I see it."  
She looked at the bleak surroundings, at the soil that had not been turned for an age and the dead flowers, killed by the early frost that year.  
"Will you help me?" she asked at last, turning her pale face to the old gardener, and he smiled.  
"That I will. You start scraping away the leaves, I'll fetch my tools and see what needs tending."

 **221b Baker Street, London - The Following Day**  
It was late the fourth day the girls were suffering from scarlet fever that Sherlock stepped outside. Taking a break from his experiments, and having received no cables from Inspector Lestrade, he seated himself on the front steps, enjoying the cool September breeze on his face. The mask and gloves he wore about the house sat on the railing, airing out. The upstairs was eerily quiet, and even when he listened at the door to the nursery, he could only just hear the hushed voices of Watson and Miss Hooper. He didn't dare try to imagine what they were discussing, so he fled downstairs again. Now, having cleared his head somewhat, he noticed a boy, one of his Irregulars, dodging in between carriages, answering back to the cabbies that shouted at him. He was making directly for 221b, so Sherlock sat up a little, motioning for the boy.  
"Ere Mister Holmes, sent special all the way from East Sussex," the boy said, doffing his cap.  
Sherlock took the letter. "Thank you Freddie," digging through his pocket, he found several shillings. "There you are, get somewhere warm tonight, it's bound to tip down tonight."  
"Warmest at the station, and that's what your brother sends his messages by," Freddie tipped his hat, jogging off into the dark street. Sherlock picked up his mask and gloves, heading around to the rear entrance to read it in the garden. Looking at the address, he saw it was in Anthea's neat script, but upon opening it, he was warmed to the core, seeing it was from Eugenia. Seating himself on the bench under the kitchen window, he read Eugenia's letter:

_Dear Papa, Hermia, Hortense and Miss Molly,  
Uncle Mycroft and Aunt Anthea's estate is beautiful! I am settled in, or so they say, and I am having to get along without a bedtime story, or our favorite rabbit but I know I shall have these things again when I return. I miss you all very much! I am keeping busy though. Uncle Mycroft is teaching me to ride a lovely bay pony, and says that I haven't much of a head for riding, but I shall be a lady yet. Aunt Anthea is teaching me French, and says I must have French in my blood, for my accent is very good. Williams, the gardener, says I have no head for gardening, but there's always hope, and that I'm a fast learner. Uncle Mycroft has given me the key to Grandmother Holmes' secret garden. It is all overgrown and scrubby, and very un-elegant, but soon Williams and I will have it ship-shape and Bristol fashion. I hope that he keeps looking after it after you send for me, so that if I might come back in the spring, it will be beautiful. There is a swing that needs mending, and I think that I could do so, if I had some tools. We can see the ocean, when the day is clear, and Uncle Mycroft and Aunt Anthea have promised that if there is another warm day, we shall go! There is a maid here that I think is supposed to be minding me, but she has a lot to do, so I don't depend on her. She has given me a skip rope, and I confess I'd rather be at it than anything else, except the garden of course. I wish you all could see it! It is so peaceful and quiet here, and I think that if we all lived in the country, I should be the happiest. It is so pleasant and quiet. I did not know quiet could be nice. There is so much to do here, and I think that Hermia and Hortense, you both must learn to ride horses, and Papa, you and Miss Molly must see my secret garden. Williams is helping me draw a plan for it, and is helping me learn about plants, which are friendly plants and which won't be nice with others.  
I miss you all so very much! Most of all I miss our story time at night, especially when you read 'The Ramayana', Papa. I miss Miss Hooper's lullabies, and playing with everyone in the nursery. I shall try not to miss you, because I know you are sick and you must get well, so that we can all have lovely times again. I shall try not to have too much fun either, by myself here. I don't much like being alone, so I hope you get well soon.  
Love to my sisters, to Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Dickerson, to Papa and Miss Molly, and even Jimmy, even if he tried to break my doll's head  
From,  
Eugenia Mariah Holmes  
P.S. Uncle Mycroft's cook is very good, but she doesn't ever make shepherds pie or jam roly-poly like you, Mrs. Dickerson.'_

By the end of the letter, Sherlock could barely read the post-script, his eyes burned with tears. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Instead this seemed to encourage the tears to fall, and he gave way at last. The dams broke and he fell to fitful sobs, weeping bitterly as he smoothed the creases in Eugenia's letter. He didn't know if he cried for her, all alone in Sussex, for Hermia and Hortense upstairs or the whole rotten situation, but cry he did, and hang him if he didn't feel better for it.  
"Holmes?" a voice by the back gate startled Sherlock, and he wiped his eyes. "Holmes, are you alright, man?" It was Inspector Lestrade. Having heard Holmes cries, he had come around from the front of the house, letting himself in the back. "Good god!" Sherlock Holmes wiped the tracks of tears from his face, sniffling, blinking his red-rimmed eyes owlishly at Lestrade.  
"Yes, inspector?"  
"What's happened?" Lestrade demanded.  
"My children are under quarantine, Inspector. Hermia and Hortense both have scarlet fever, I would ask you not stay long, if you have not yet had it."  
"Had it as a boy," Lestrade answered quickly. "But two at once?! What about Eugenia? She is not sick as well?"  
Again, Sherlock gave a pitiful sniff. "No," he shook his head, looking at the letter in his hands. "Miss Hooper had the foresight to get her out of the nursery as soon as possible. My brother has taken Eugenia to the country where she will be safe."  
"Good," Lestrade nodded. "Well I- I came originally because I need you to look at a body, but you're busy-"  
"I'll come right away!" Sherlock folded the letter, setting it in his breast pocket.  
"Holmes-" Gregory was already shaking his head. "You're in no condition, your children are sick, you're needed here-"  
Sherlock very nearly exploded then. "There's nothing I can do here!" he, turned, kicking over the empty coal bucket. "I am banished from the nursery as I have never had scarlet fever, I am forced to go about the house in a mask and gloves for fear of contracting it. I cannot see my children, any of them. I. Am going. Mad."  
Lestrade studied the consulting detective for a moment.  
"Very well," he relented, and Sherlock sighed, relieved, nearly giving way to tears again. "But you go where I say, hear me? I don't need you picking up the fever from some stiff."  
"Not to worry," Sherlock held up his mask and gloves. Affixing the mask over his face, he folded his hands behind his back.  
"Ah-" Lestrade stepped in front of him, preventing him from leaving just yet.  
Sherlock frowned. "What?" he asked, voice muffled by his mask.  
"Leave word that you're going, and where they can reach you if there's any change," Lestrade said.  
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Right."

Upstairs, Mrs. Hudson delivered a basket of clean rags, taking down the bag of dirty ones, "I'll have a tray up for you in a while, Mrs. Dickerson's made you something a little more substantial, now that all the washing's done with,"  
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, and thank Mrs. Dickerson as well," Molly said, relieved at the thought of food. She never seemed to recognize her body's needs these past few days, until food was mentioned. She knew she must be exhausted, but sheer willpower must have kept her from feeling it.  
"Oh, by the way," Mrs. Hudson stopped in the doorway. "Inspector Lestrade is taking Mr. Holmes to the morgue, something about a case."  
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Watson answered and the housekeeper headed back downstairs. "Thank goodness for that," he sighed.  
"Yes, I never thought I'd be happy to see him go look at a dead body," Molly agreed.  
Watson bent to study Hermia's throat. "Increase the dosage of sodium nitrate to thirty grains to the ounce of water," he said, nodding for Molly to fetch the medicine from his bag. "And mind you wipe the discharge off the ulcers with a sponge before applying the caustic, understand? We don't want to clog them."  
"Yes Doctor Watson," Molly answered. If her hands trembled as she measured out the prescribed dosage, she chalked it up to worry and lack of dinner. It didn't matter, very soon Mrs. Hudson would send up a tray.  
"The fevers should break soon now," Watson soothed. "Tonight will be critical," he sighed, looking from Hermia to Hortense, the latter barely a lump under the bed covers. She labored to breathe, and her legs were dreadfully swollen. "It is a good thing Holmes left when he did," he sighed heavily, nodding with some finality. "Let us hope we can give him some good news in the morning.


	8. You Have Come to Journey's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: child death mentioned in this chapter

The night dragged on, and Hermia grew worse. Molly was almost grateful that Hortense was so quiet. Almost. Truly, she knew that both of the girl’s behavior was disturbing to her, and so she did not dwell on it. Hermia’s temper vacillated wildly between delirium and paranoia, sobbing for her mother in one breath, the next she would be begging to water her plants in the window (the plants were long removed, taken out with everything else to be burned in the garden). Sometimes she recognized Molly, sometimes only Watson. More than anything she cried for her father, and Molly’s heart broke for both of them.   
Just after midnight, Watson took up the scissors, Hermia had at last fallen asleep, still feverishly delirious. “If you will hold her please,” he said quietly. “I should like to shave her head while she is still, perhaps it will help break the fever.”   
Somehow, this simple request seemed to break Molly, and she began to cry.   
“Sorry- I’m sorry,” she wiped her eyes, trying hard to control herself, but her sobs came in fitful breaths. Watson squeezed her arm.   
“It’s all right,” he answered her, and he regarded her sorrowfully. “Have a cry, lord knows we all need one.” Molly looked at him then, seeing his own eyes were red-rimmed, not simply from lack of sleep either. She covered his hand in hers then, squeezing gently.   
“I’m fine now,” she sniffed. “Yes, I’ll hold her up for you,” she wiped her face on her apron, sniffling as she crossed the room. Heaving a sigh, she knelt on Hermia’s bed, gently lifting the little girl as Watson spread out a sheet for the fallen hair to be gathered on. Tiredly, Watson sat on the opposite side of the bed and reached over, starting at the bottom, cutting off Hermia’s curls in great pieces.   
“Do talk, Miss Hooper,” Watson said as he worked. “I don’t think I could take another quiet night.”   
Molly smiled a little at this. “Now you sound like Sherlock- er, Mr. Holmes.”   
He didn’t blink at her slip of the tongue, merely shrugged.  
“We did share the house for a considerable time before Mary and I got married- let’s trade places-“ he looked over the top of Hermia’s head. “-So I can cut her hair on the other side now,”  
Settled again, Molly brushed the bits of hair off Hermia’s lap, onto the floor. “Eugenia sent the family a letter today, I think Mr. Holmes still has it. Lady Anthea sent me one as well,”  
“Did she?” Watson murmured, glancing up from his task. “What did she say? Any sign of symptoms?”  
“No,” Molly answered with a gentle shake of her head. “Thank goodness. She wrote that Eugenia was having a marvelous time, quite settled in. She’s lonely without her sisters, but Lord Mycroft is taking her riding, and there’s a garden for her to play in.”  
“That’s good,” John agreed with a sigh. “Something to divert her, and keep the fresh air in her lungs. I think once Hermia and Hortense are strong they must go to the country as well, get something of the country in them, away from the filth.”  
That was a cheerful thought, and for a moment, Molly allowed herself to be lost in thought, dreaming of swift sunrises, of fragrant greenery, and with all her heart looking forward to seeing all three Holmes girls running and playing together.   
“I don’t know if I can picture Mr. Holmes in the country,” Molly said after a moment, with a laugh. She could not see her employer lounging in a summer suit on a veranda, whiling away hours on a game of croquet or lawn bowling, or, indeed, walking. “He doesn’t seem the type.”  
“London life does suit Holmes,” John chuckled. “But for the good of his children, he’d do anything.” There was some finality in his tone that made her look up. He noticed and met her gaze briefly. “You heard, of course, of the Reichenbach Case.”  
“Oh yes!” she nodded, wide-eyed.   
“Some of it was sensationalized,” he shrugged, smiling a little. “Writers prerogative, and the readers like that sort of thing, but Moriarty was every bit real. The children were very young at the time. During the whole of the case, Sherlock kept them at his brother’s estate, well away from press and out of danger. Of course the children are never mentioned in the stories, as they should not be.”  
“You really were under the impression he was dead though, Mr. Holmes I mean?’ Molly asked, surprised, and Watson nodded grimly. He brushed a lock of hair from Hermia’s cheek, running a hand over her shaved scalp, removing any other bits of loose hair.   
“Two years,” he said. “He wanted to be sure the threat of Moriarty was gone, as well as remove any loose ends from the former professor’s web.” Placing another damp rag over Hermia’s head, they gently laid her back down. John bent, testing the heat of the water bottle at her feet before straightening with a grunt. Molly brushed down the bed, removing the hair from the sheets. “Enough of that though,” John spoke again. “Tell me more about Eugenia, how is she getting on?” Quietly, as they changed linens and administered medicine, Molly told him everything Lady Anthea had written of.   
No sooner had they sat down for a brief respite, Hermia began to fit, vomiting the last bit of barley water they’d gotten her to drink. It was all hands then, and Watson and Molly could not spare any more thoughts for Eugenia or the country.

 **East Sussex, Holmes Estate**  
Mycroft was awake as soon as he heard the bedroom door open.   
“Who is there?” he asked, lifting his head from the pillow.   
“Uncle Mycroft?”   
He sat up then, seeing Eugenia in her nightgown and bare feet. In her hand she held loosely a rag doll the under-butler had fashioned for her.   
“What is it, child?” he asked, quite surprised to see her there, and quite unused to a child in his bedroom. Beside him, Anthea was fast asleep, unaware of the goings on.   
In the dark, he could hear Eugenia sniffle.   
“I- I don’t know…I woke up suddenly, and- and I don’t know why- I can’t s-sleep and- and-“   
Mycroft was up and across the room in four strides. He picked Eugenia up and she flung her arms about him, sobbing into his shoulder. Petting her hair, he pressed her cheek, letting her cry.  
“Bring her here,” Anthea’s soft voice from the bed called. Mycroft looked over at her, then down at Eugenia in his arms. He lifted the little girl, carrying her back to bed. Anthea rolled over, and Eugenia turned to her aunt, curling close to her.   
“There, there,” she soothed her. “Sometimes worry will do that.” Gently, she played with Eugenia’s soft curls.   
Mycroft climbed in, once Eugenia was settled. “Stay here with your Aunt and I, you’ll soon be fast off again,” he said. Eugenia did not shut her eyes though. She remained, wide-eyed, curled in a ball against her aunt, clinging to her doll, willing the dawn to come faster. No lullaby would sooth her, nor even Mycroft’s promise to wire in the morning.   
“Could we not send a message now?” Anthea asked softly. Eugenia turned, looking at her Uncle, the barest of hope in her eyes. He hesitated, holding the covers for a moment before flinging them back, swinging his feet down onto the floor.   
“Stay abed, I’ll see to it,” he said to them, and took his clothes, heading into his dressing room to change, ringing the pull by the door as he passed it.   
“Your uncle will see to everything,” Anthea promised. “Don’t worry anymore,” she did not try and assure the child that nothing was wrong, for children often had keen senses when it came to such things, and truthfully, Anthea had such a terrible sense of foreboding that she could not even attempt to tell Eugenia such a thing.

 **221b Baker Street**   
Sherlock arrived home in time to hear Hermia’s latest fit of paranoia. Mrs. Hudson merely shook her head tiredly. In her dressing gown she waved him into the parlor, promising to bring him a tray. Everyone else downstairs had gone to bed to try and find some much needed sleep. Once the tray was delivered, Sherlock suggested the housekeeper do the same.   
“I shall wake you if there is any need,” he promised, and she nodded her thanks. For his part, Sherlock settled into his chair by the fire, poking at the tray left for him. In the end, he ate until he was satisfied, and drank nearly the entire pot of tea before filling a pipe. He took some comfort, having finally eaten. He realized it had done him some good, leaving the house for a few hours. He was glad of the distraction, and as he sat and smoked, he thought of the corpse he had examined, of the strange bruises on the body. It was murder, most definitely, and Sherlock informed Lestrade the man to search for was missing their littlest fingers. It struck Sherlock as odd. What sort of complications in a person’s life would ensue, having to go without their littlest fingers? He smiled, the stem of the pipe between his teeth. It was an experiment the children would love to try. They could probably tie their little fingers to their palms, and try any number of tasks. It was something to look forward to doing as a family, once they were better.   
With his stomach full, and his head coming up with pleasant experiments to do with the children, Sherlock felt himself drifting off to sleep. The house was quiet for the first time in days. Hermia was quieting down, the laundry was caught up with at last, so Mrs. Dickerson and Jimmy were taking a well-deserved rest. Upstairs Watson and Miss Hooper were speaking, but their tones were quiet, and now and then someone laughed quietly. ‘Storytelling, most likely,’ thought Sherlock. That must mean the children were asleep, and Watson was not concerned. It was with this thought that Sherlock put out his pipe and slouched low in his chair, watching the fire until he fell asleep. 

In the early morning, just around dawn, Molly roused herself, rubbing her aching neck. She sat up with a start, upset she’d fallen asleep. She got to her feet, crossing the room. She felt Hermia’s forehead, then her neck. “Doctor Watson,” she called in a hushed whisper. “Doctor Watson!”   
He jerked awake, grunting in pain for his stiff neck. Sleeping four nights in a chair was terrible, to say nothing of being away from Mary and the children. He’d sent a note each night, keeping her abreast of the goings on. Now though, his attention was needed elsewhere.  
“Has her fever broken?” he asked, getting to his feet.   
“I think so,”   
He took out his stethoscope, feeling Hermia’s head and listening to her heart. He smiled, breathing a sigh of relief. “Go and check Hortense, they are nearly on the same clock now, if it has not broken yet, it will very soon.” Molly’s heart thudded with relief as she rounded the bed. Hortense had rolled over in her sleep, something she had not done in an age. She slept on her belly now, and so Molly gently pushed back the covers for the little girl, and found the covers to be a little cool. Molly felt relief at that,   
“I think it has broken already!” she said over her shoulder to Watson, and she bent to rouse Hortense. 

_Grey_

For the barest of seconds, Molly was confused.   
Molly Hooper didn’t dare trust her gut at this very moment, and she gently rolled Hortense over.   
John was still seeing to Hermia, checking her pulse, gently coaxing the little girl to open her eyes for a little longer. Hermia was barely awake, but she answered sleepily when he greeted her, and said she felt fine, only tired and thirsty, before shutting her eyes again. He turned with a start when Molly sat down hard on the floor, the bowl on the night stand rattled sharply. “Miss Hooper, a little care-“ he looked over his shoulder again, alarmed at what he realized he was looking at. Gently, he tucked Hermia in again. “Stay there, I’ll see about a glass of water for you,” he said quietly and the girl murmured, already falling asleep again. “Stay there, don’t move.”  
John came around the beds, to where Miss Hooper sat. She held Hortense by the wrist. He looked at the girl, and he knew without having to touch her.  
“Can’t find it,” Molly murmured, she looked at John, wild-eyed. “I can’t find her pulse, and that’s silly-“ she sniffed. “It’s been so erratic lately…I should be able to find it.”   
“Miss Hooper,” he placed his hands over hers, carefully pulling her away. “You won’t find her pulse,”   
“Wrong spot, wasn’t it?” Molly laughed through her tears, her mouth twisted into a frown. “Stupid really- I was looking too high on her wrist- I should-“ she reached again, but Watson prevented her. She made to protest, but he gave her a shake, forcing her to look away.  
“Molly,” he grasped her by her shoulders, squeezing gently. She looked at him as if confused, and then a spark of recognition crossed her features. She held onto him. “She is gone, Molly,” John answered her gently. “She’s gone,”   
“Sh-Sherlock won’t- he- he’ll be so upset, she can’t be gone- you said if we shaved her head- and- and the medicine-“ for a moment she struggled against Watson, beating his chest with the flat of her palms, angry and not know why she was so angry about Hortense’ bald head. He held still, letting her hit him. In a moment she stopped, and she sagged against him, giving way to tears. He let her for a moment, finding his own eyes were blurry. Now though, there was much to be done, and no time to weep. Tears were a luxury a doctor could not afford. “Miss Hooper,” he said. Slowly, she straightened, gathering her strength, she lifted her head, still forcing back sobs. He gave her his kerchief. “Dry your eyes now. I know it’s hard, but right now we haven’t time, not yet. Someone has to tell Holmes.”   
She looked at him then, unable to fathom what his reaction would be, and too, afraid for what he might do. 

Downstairs, Sherlock poked the fire, grumbling to himself about the empty coal bin.  
“Holmes.” He turned from bending over the hearth, seeing Watson in the door of the parlor.   
“Watson!” he stood, pleased to see his friend. “Well? How are my children? You said last night was critical, I can see it looks that way-“ He began to cross the room but Watson stopped him.   
“Stay there, at least twelve feet, I may still carry the sickness.”   
“Watson, what is it?” Sherlock asked, growing impatient. He tugged his mask up from around his neck, pulling it over his mouth. “How are Hermia and Hortense?”   
The look on Watson’s face was strange, it was one Sherlock did not recognize. Watson stared at the parlor carpet, arms hanging limply at his sides. He finally looked up.  
“Hermia’s fever broke sometime in the early morning,” he began. “She is awake, somewhat, and in a day or so, once the nursery has been cleaned thoroughly, you will be allowed to see her.”   
Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, shoulders sagging. “Thank God for that,” he managed, finding himself somewhat choked up. “And Hortense? The dropsy has not reached her chest, has it?”   
“No,” Watson shook his head, blinking quickly. “No it did not spread.”   
“Good, good,” Sherlock nodded, rubbing his hands. “Her fever broke too, I expect, or it should not be long in coming-”   
“Holmes-“   
“See that Miss Hooper knows to keep Hortense’ feet elevated, it can make all the difference-“ Sherlock went on.   
“Holmes-“  
“What of the rash? That has not become ulcerated, has it? She is still taking barley water? She is so much smaller than Hermia, she-“  
“Sherlock!”   
Here, Sherlock stopped, quite surprised at Watson using his given name. He looked at him, and Watson held very still, as if afraid. Sherlock stared, suddenly finding his pulse was racing, and there was a great roaring in his ears.   
John worried his hands. He drew breath, “Sherlock, Hortense died in the night- Holmes wait-“ 

Sherlock hurtled himself towards the doorway and up the stairs. John managed to tackle him in the hallway, forcing him back from the door.   
Sherlock fought against him, scrambling for the nursery. “I don’t care let me in- let me in-“  
“And expose yourself to the fever?“ John argued. “Be sensible-“  
“I don’t care-“  
“Then _make_ yourself, or you bury yourself with her!” John shouted. Sherlock struggled against him, but John still had the upper hand, forcing him to the wall. “You have two children still to think of, two children who will need you now more than anything.” Sherlock stilled then, and Watson held him there. “If you get sick, you risk your life, now listen to me, Sherlock, do not do this.” Sherlock nodded mutely, staring at the hallway floor. John did not release him until he felt him relax under his grip. “You’ll see Hermia in another day, I promise. I promise, do you understand? Tomorrow morning, you’ll be able to see her. I’ll make sure everything is ready.”  
“What about Eugenia?” Sherlock asked quietly, looking into the middle-distance, unable to meet Watson’s gaze yet.   
“Cable your brother,” John answered. “Make sure he knows she has to stay where she is. It’s too much of a risk to bring her back here yet.”  
“When?” Sherlock asked, finding his vision was blurring. It was worse than coming down from a high. The world swam around him, and he felt more keenly than ever before a lack of control. His first instinct was to find a needle, but the thought of losing any more control repulsed him. He was not used to rejecting with all certainty the temptation to get high, and it left him confused for a moment. He had no crutch to lean on this time, and he was at a loss as to what to do. He licked his lips, blinking. “When will she be able to come home?”  
“Not for some time,” Watson answered. “When Hermia is stronger, I think it would be best for all of you to go on holiday, stay on your brother’s estate, get out of London until next spring or summer.”   
Sniffling harshly, Sherlock slowly straightened, pushing himself away from the wall. “I’ll go…” he gestured lamely, in the general direction of the stairs. “See to things…shall I?”  
“I’m sorry, Holmes…” Watson said after a moment. “Good God man, I am so very sorry.” Sherlock nodded brusquely.   
“Go on, see to Hermia, please, look after her, make sure she doesn’t-“ he couldn’t finish the sentence. He finally looked up at Watson, who nodded, understanding the unfinished thought.  
“I will, I promise.” 

Sherlock waited for the nursery door to close again. He made his way down the stairs, sighing heavily. The world blurred again, and he held onto the railing as he felt the strength leave his legs. He sat down hard, staring blindly down to the front door.   
“Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes-“someone touched his arm, and he blinked startled. It was Freddie, the Irregular from the previous night.   
“Freddie,” he murmured, frowning. “When did you get here? Who let you in?”  
“Let myself in,” the boy answered. “Cable from your brother, wanted to know if there was any news.”   
Freddie looked at Mr. Holmes, disturbed that the Consulting Detective was so very still. It was as if he was in shock.   
“Thank you, Freddie,” Sherlock heard himself answer. The house was so eerily quiet. He reached into his pocket without looking, handing the boy a fistful of coins. “Send my brother a wire, please tell him that Hortense has died. Eugenia must stay in the country, where it is safe. Will cable again when I have more information.”   
Freddie looked strangely at Sherlock, slowly closing his fingers over the money.   
“Yes sir, I will sir,” he answered softly. “I’ll do that now,” he went down the stairs quietly, looking over his shoulder. Sherlock Holmes still sat on the stairway, knees drawn up to his chest, unmoving. 

He shut the door behind him, giving three short, shrill whistles. Four more Irregular’s popped out of hiding along the street.   
“Come on,” Freddie motioned. “It’s happened, spread the word, was the youngest.” The three took off in different directions to find the rest of the Irregulars and inform them of their employer’s loss. Freddie, for his part, made his way with all haste to the nearest wireless operator.


	9. We All Fall Down

For days, it seemed as if everyone were in a fog. The occupants of Baker Street felt as if they had all collectively taken a step and missed the staircase entirely, tumbling instead headfirst into a silent chaos. Molly continued to look after Hermia, taking the quiet moments in the night to mourn Hortense. Mrs. Dickerson made meals no one felt like eating, but the woman was too upset to put up a fuss when plates came back half-empty. Sherlock sequestered himself away with Hortense' body in the guest room, keeping vigil, speaking aloud, to whom, no one was certain. He did not mind if someone came in and sat as well, but more often than not, he sat staring at the corpse of the child, as if willing it to come alive again. John Watson washed up, and slept on the sofa downstairs, taking a much-needed rest before the funeral. Mary Watson took action (albeit from a distance, as John would not have her risking infection, for her or the children) and saw to it that straw was laid on the street in front of 221b. White crape tied with white satin ribbon was hung on the door and bell, informing others of the occupants going into mourning. Passersby on the sidewalk paused for a moment, quite in shock that a youth was gone, and too that it had belonged to such a famous address. The Baker Street Irregulars stood vigil outside of the house, keeping riff-raff of the press down and minding the sidewalk was swept and neat. Molly made sure to send Mrs. Hudson out with hot tea and biscuits or bowls of porridge. Hermia still needed tending to, and Molly gladly threw herself into the work, grateful for the distraction.

Mycroft arrived within a day of receiving Sherlock's telegram, already sporting a black armband. He found his brother in the guest room and he himself sent his brother to bathe, after which he shaved him, and helped him dress. The entire house would be in mourning, Anthea had called her dress-maker and had two black gowns, both made of crape for Molly to wear. Mourning would last almost a year for the house. Once Hermia was better, she would wear black as well.   
Once Sherlock was dressed, he returned to the guest room while Mycroft went in search of Watson. He found him in the parlor, setting up chairs for the funeral service.  
"Has the house been swept?" He asked Watson.  
Watson nodded tiredly. "I enlisted the help of Miss Hooper, she's collected everything."  
"What about my brother's room, has that been gone over?"  
"Miss Hooper assures me that it has, and I trust her," Watson answered. At such a time, there was no telling what terrible thing Sherlock could get his hands on, and so every precaution was being taken. Molly, for her part, put aside her shock that her employer dabbled in substance abuse and went over the house with a fine-tooth comb, leaving nothing to chance. She found a few spare syringes Sherlock had put aside, hidden away in the cupboard in the laboratory, and two vials and a single paper packet containing some suspicious substance in his bedroom, hidden under a loose floorboard. These had all been collected together and handed over to Mycroft, who would dispose of them.  
If Sherlock knew (which he most likely did), he did not put up a fuss. He was still in shock, and there was not much he would answer to. He stood by as Molly bathed Hortense one last time, dressed her in her Sunday best and then he himself carried her down and laid her in the coffin the funeral parlor had delivered.

The day of the funeral, Molly approached Sherlock, wordlessly handing him a small parcel.  
"What is this?" he asked, speaking for the first time in a day.  
"I cut a lock of Hortense' hair," she answered. "I saved a piece, for your brother, and here is yours. Your brother saw to it the funeral parlor rushed it, so it would be ready in time."  
Sherlock unwrapped the package, surprised to see a pocket watch fob, inside was the swatch of Hortense' dark hair, neatly coiled under the crystal setting.  
"I- thought it would be appropriate," Molly said when he did not speak. "So…so you would have a piece of her nearby…I'm sorry if I've overstepped or-" Here she stopped, for he had suddenly put his hands on her shoulders, and bending, reverently kissed her forehead.  
"Thank you," he said, quite meaning. "It is…" he cleared his throat, looking at the fob, blinking several times. "It is…" he could not say what he meant, what he wanted to say, but Molly seemed to understand, she squeezed his forearm.  
"I'll see that the chairs are set up," she said softly, and disappeared into the parlor.

Sherlock saw that Mycroft wore a ring on his littlest finger, made of jet. He could see that the setting too contained a smaller curl from Hortense, and some small part of him was pleased that his brother wore a memento of his niece.  
"It is appropriate," was all Mycroft would say before sitting down near the closed casket.  
The funeral service had started small, but a quiet knock on the door revealed all thirty of Sherlock's Irregulars, caps doffed, requesting entry to pay their respects. Sherlock waved Mrs. Hudson off, motioning for the group of boys and two girls to come in. Molly arranged for places for them, though there were not enough chairs, cushions were placed then on the floor, and the older ones promised they did not mind standing. 

Molly could not bear to sit downstairs, and so she stood at the top of the stairs by the nursery where she could hear if Hermia needed her. From there she could see the open doorway to the parlor, and the group of children with their heads bowed as a priest quoted Psalms. Hearing that the priest was nearing the end of his short sermon, Molly saw to it that Hermia was fast asleep, and then, sniffling, crept downstairs again.  
Sherlock heard the rustling of Molly's stiffly starched petticoats and the crape of her gown as she made her way downstairs. He turned, eyes red-rimmed, face drawn and pale, and regarded her. She stood in the doorway, the warm glow of the lamplight caught the shine of the curls that framed her face. She clutched a black-trimmed handkerchief, wiping her eyes and doing her best to appear a stalwart figure among the group of mourners. He swallowed hard then, finding he was nearly choked, suppressing a sob. He realized suddenly that he took such a comfort, such relief knowing that she was there too, just seeing her there, smiling gently at one of the younger irregular's who grasped her hand. Sherlock Holmes, not for the first time, realized just how grateful he was for Molly Hooper at such a time in his life.  
"Children," Molly said, her voice was soft, breaking the silence. "Come and warm yourselves in the kitchen, before you go, there is soup, and tea for you."  
Inspector Lestrade, who was near the door, began guiding the children down the hall, casting a sorrowful glance at Holmes, and then touching Molly's arm lightly, he said to her, aside:  
"I can stay for a while more, if that's easier, if you'd prefer…" he said.  
"Haven't you a beat to walk, Inspector?" Holmes voice was harsh suddenly, though he did not turn around from facing the coffin.  
Both Molly and Lestrade turned with a start, hearing him speak. Mycroft touched his brother's shoulder, a silent reprimand.  
"Thank you, Inspector," Molly said to Lestrade, choosing to ignore Sherlock's rudeness. "It is very kind of you, but there is still so much to be done before tomorrow, and Mr. Holmes is right, I'm sure you have a good deal to accomplish."  
Lestrade nodded, understanding. "He is right, as usual,"  
"I'll see you to the door," Molly offered and he thanked her.  
"Send a cable, if there's anything you or he needs," Lestrade said, lingering for just a moment in the doorway.  
Molly nodded, her smile wane. "Yes I will, thank you."

 **The Next Morning**  
The following day, the Irregulars lined the front steps to 221b, hats in hand as the older boys carried the coffin up to the funeral coach. Sherlock followed, Mycroft close behind. Molly and John brought up the rear, Mrs. Hudson would sit with Hermia for the time being. Sherlock requested Miss Hooper be present at Hortense' burial.  
"It is entirely unsuitable," Mycroft had argued the previous night. "She is not the child's mother!"  
"Hortense did not have a mother!" Sherlock retorted. "She will be present, because I say it is appropriate!" So Molly went, not sure she was doing the right thing, leaving Hermia to the housekeeper. She felt certain something would go wrong, and she wrung her hands all through the interment. She had not wept openly at the funeral service, but now it was all she could do to keep still. She did not wonder at the grief of mothers who went wailing and keening to the graveside. She felt as if she were on the brink of a very inappropriate display when suddenly Sherlock Holmes grasped her elbow, guiding her hand to the crook of his arm. He said nothing, remaining stone-faced, staring at the grave, almost un-moving save for the wind that pulled at their coats. Mycroft went with them back to Baker Street to take tea, but Sherlock insisted he return to the country, to see that Eugenia was taken care of. The child had been informed of her sister's death, and Sherlock was concerned that she had not seemed to understand. Mycroft, seeing his brother was on edge for his remaining daughters well-being, decided that he would leave immediately for Sussex. Before departing, he thanked Miss Hooper.  
"I am more grateful than I can say for your presence here, not only today but before, when the children were so ill," he said. "My brother is…" he paused, trying to find a way to delicately say what he meant.  
"He isn't like most gentlemen," Molly supplied, to which Mycroft nodded. "Nor are you, if I am honest," she continued. "In many ways you are, but you both are unique…" she studied him then, a morose frown overtaking her features, still caught up in the grief of mourning. "I don't know how, but you both are. I think I am grateful for it."  
"I shall take that as a compliment," Mycroft answered, touching the brim of his hat. "Thank you, for arranging for the ring for myself, and my brother's fob, I shall see to it you are compensated."  
"No, please," Molly shook her head. "I meant it as a gift, not a very nice one, nothing to do with such a terrible thing is nice, but I thought you both might need something to remember her by, and no one had said anything of doing so yet." Mycroft regarded her them, not for the first time realizing that Molly Hooper was a singular woman. Perhaps even a gentlewoman, not in the true sense of the word, but Mycroft saw that there was an elegance about Miss Hooper, sitting underneath the surface of nurse-maid and working-class governess. She was lovely, in her own right, inside and out.  
"And so I am grateful to you," Mycroft said at last, and meant it.  
Molly nodded. "Please give Eugenia my love, and my thanks to Lady Anthea for looking after her."  
"It is her pleasure, I am sure, and I shall pass on your affections to my niece. Good day." He stepped up into the waiting coach, and Molly turned back to 221b, feeling a little better for sending Mycroft away somewhat eased of heart.  
That afternoon, now three days since Hermia's fever broke, she was well enough to sit up and take a little beef broth and a cup of tea. Seeing her sister's empty beds, she asked if Eugenia and Hortense were in the country. Molly told her then that Eugenia was at the Holmes Estate.  
"Hortense isn't with her?" Hermia asked, a confused expression crossing her pale face.  
Molly took a breath, trying to find the words. "No, she's not with Eugenia," she answered carefully.  
"Where is she?"  
Molly stroked Hermia's cheek, finding her thumbs were wet as the little girl began to cry. "Hermia…"  
"Don't lie, you never lie!" Hermia's eyes flashed, and she tried to get up.  
"Hermia," Her father's voice made her stop, and she turned, seeing him in the doorway. The nursery was clean now, and she was no longer contagious, so he was allowed in, though Watson insisted he wear a mask still. He stepped into the room and Molly stood, giving up her chair for him. Taking his daughter's hands, he drew breath, "Hortense has died."

For one long, awful moment, Hermia couldn't make a sound. Her face twisted, her mouth hung open and when she caught her breath, she let out a keening wail as she began to sob. Sherlock didn't know what to do. He looked startled, turning with a start to Molly. Molly understood what was needed, and she hitched up her skirts, climbing onto the bed. He watched as Molly drew Hermia up onto her lap, between her legs, not minding her skirts being pushed up as Hermia clung to her. Rocking her gently, Molly stroked her back and her shaved head, pressing kisses to her forehead and murmuring softly to Hermia. Sherlock didn't know what else to do but hold his daughter's hand, grateful to the core for Molly Hooper's presence. Hermia sobbed against her breast, hysterical and quite unwilling to be calmed, and Molly did not try to. Sherlock listened, surprised, that Molly encouraged Hermia to cry.  
"Cry all you want, dear-heart," she murmured soothingly. "It's a great loss…a great loss darling, my poor darling…"  
Sherlock had heard Molly weeping in the night, and he almost expected her to give way to tears with Hermia again. Instead her eyes remained dry, her voice did not tremble or wane. She seemed a pillar of strength in that room, and Sherlock wished dearly for even a portion of it. His daughter clung to her, and he felt suddenly that this was what a child did with their mother. Hermia reached for Molly before she reached for him, and he found he could not muster even the smallest amount of jealousy.

 **East Sussex, Holmes Estate**  
The entire estate was in an uproar. Eugenia was missing, and no one could find her. Anthea was frantic, Mycroft positively livid.  
"How? How can you lose a child?!" His coat, hat and gloves were discarded by the door. Upstairs, doors opened and closed, cupboards were ransacked as everyone looked for Eugenia.  
"We are looking everywhere, my Lord," Jameson, the butler, said, jogging to keep up with Mycroft's long strides. "We have the kitchen maids searching down-cellar, she cannot be in the wine cellar as I have the key, and it has not left my pantry-"  
"Check anyway," Mycroft ordered. "I would not put it past my brother's children to know how to pick a lock,"  
"Yes sir," the butler hurried away.  
Anthea came running in, breathless. "She isn't in the rose garden,"  
"What about the spot she and Williams have been fixing up?"  
"Williams is looking now," Anthea replied.  
"She must be somewhere," Mycroft ran his fingers through his hair, digging at his scalp. "She can't have gotten far!"  
"Mycroft!" Anthea grasped for his sleeve, a horrifying thought crossed her mind. "What if she's tried to make for the train station?!"  
"Good God!" he bolted for the door. "Jameson!"  
"He's looking in the wine-cellar," Anthea reminded him, bending to look under the sofa again. "You checked the library?"  
"Yes, yes," Mycroft waved irritably at her. "I'll ride out to the station and see-"  
"Lord Mycroft," Williams, the gardener stood in the doorway, hat in his hands.  
"Yes? What is it?"  
"Begging your pardon, I found her sir, in the garden, she left the door open."  
Anthea sank onto a chair, relieved.  
"Thank you," Mycroft answered then. "Where is she now?" He expected to see Eugenia appear behind the gardener.  
"She- she's still out there, m'lord…" Williams gestured confusedly toward the door. "She won't come in."  
Mycroft sighed, realizing. Of course the child would not want to come in yet, nor see anyone either. That wouldn't do, not at all.  
"I see," he nodded. "Yes, thank you, Williams. My dear?" he held out his hand for Anthea and she took it, following him out of the parlor and down to the garden.  
The garden was hardly welcoming this time of year, everything had been cut back for the winter. Here and there a rosehip lingered, shriveled by the early frost. A gust of wind sent leaves scuttling down the pathway, as if leading the way.

Finding the door was no trouble, Eugenia had indeed left the door open, and Williams made sure to leave it so. Quietly, Mycroft and Anthea made their way into the garden. The garden was overgrown, and Mycroft was sorry to see it in such a state, his mother had loved it here, and it seemed right that it should belong to Eugenia now. The thing to do now, though, was find the poor child. Under every shrub and patchy scrub of grass they looked. They pushed aside prickly branches bare of roses, thorny blackberry bushes and dead, rustling heather.  
"Mother did love a cottage garden," Mycroft sighed, looking at the welts on his hands.  
Anthea pushed back a stray lock of hair, scanning the surrounding area. "She must be here, Mycroft,"  
Holding a finger to his lips, he turned, studying a corner of the garden. The creeping ivy shifted, and at the base of the high wall, where the ivy hung low, the toes of Eugenia's shoes poked out.  
"Williams, inform the others," Mycroft called to the gardener who waited by the door. The gardener nodded, hurrying back to the house.  
Eugenia could see her aunt and uncle through the vines, and so she knelt down, huddling with her knees against her chest, trying to make herself small. She didn't want to be seen, didn't want to talk or think or move, if necessary. She felt as if a half of her was missing since she'd arrived. She loved Hermia dearly, of course she did, but Hortense! Hortense was her equal. They shared the same thoughts, were so often of the same mind. She thought she would have her twin beside her forever. The realization of just how much of her life was affected by this loss was too great, and Eugenia's head ached. Everything was wrong. There was no corner of her life that did not remind her of her sister. No corner except her grandmother's garden. Here was a small bit of earth that was hers and hers alone. It did not belong to anyone. Her sisters had never seen it. Her sisters didn't know it had existed. Here was one place that had no trace of Hortense. Here in the cold garden, it didn't hurt so much. The curtain of ivy was pushed aside, she looked up with a start, realizing it was her uncle and aunt. He didn't look stern though, nor did Aunt Anthea, for that matter.  
"Come here," Uncle Mycroft gestured to her, Aunt Anthea stepped forward, holding back the ivy so he could crouch down, creeping forward a little. When Eugenia did not move, he closed the distance and picked her up, steadying himself as he stood. "Come inside where it's warm," he said. He did not say 'everything will be all right' and Eugenia was glad, because nothing was right, how could anything ever be all right again?

Uncle Mycroft seemed to understand she did not wish to talk yet. Aunt Anthea fussed over her, until Uncle Mycroft gently admonished her to 'let the child be for now'.  
"I'll go and see if cook will send up a nice pot of hot chocolate," Anthea murmured.  
Mycroft caught her hand as she passed, kissing it. "Thank you, my love," he said and she smiled faintly in response. The house was strangely quiet. Servants peeked into the library as they passed. They all expected to hear the child sobbing inconsolably. It was eerie, then, to see her curled up on the sofa, her head on her uncle's knee.  
"Excuse me, m'lord," the under-butler, Thomas, knocked lightly on the door. "I found this in the hall, Miss Eugenia must have dropped it," he held out the rag doll. Without saying a word, Eugenia reached for it, so he handed it to her. She tucked it securely against her chest, wrapping her arms about her skinny frame. Knowing he was dismissed, Thomas bowed and left.  
Mycroft gently squeezed Eugenia's shoulder. "You might feel better if you cried," he murmured. He rubbed his forehead, sighing. "We might all feel better."  
"You aren't crying," Eugenia murmured, staring straight ahead.  
Her uncle sighed heavily again, not feeling any better for it. "I don't think I can yet," he answered her. "It's too fresh still." He looked down at her, soothing her shoulder again. "Is that how you feel?"  
"I don't feel anything," she answered. "I don't know what to feel…"  
The numbness was to be expected. Mycroft was not surprised. He went on petting her shoulder and hair, waiting for Anthea to return.  
It did not take long for the news to genuinely sink in. Anthea had returned and was pouring her a cup of cocoa. Eugenia obediently sat up and took the cup. The smell of hot chocolate swirled around her, a peppermint stick was spinning in the cup, slowly melting and she was suddenly lost in a memory.

_"Please may we try it?" Eugenia begged her father. He held a cup of something hot and it did not smell like coffee or tea. Whatever it was made their mouths water. Hortense was at his other knee, large eyes pleading for just a sip.  
"Very well," he chuckled and bent. "I'll hold the cup, careful now, it's hot," Eugenia sipped first, and then Hortense. Their eyes danced at the sudden rich taste of hot chocolate, of peppermint. It melted over their tongues and they latched onto each other's hands, quite sure there was nothing so lovely as hot chocolate. The cup was almost empty, and their father was watching them over the rim. "I'm sure you'd hate another taste," he said casually, rolling his eyes and both girls were at his knees again,  
"Please may we?" Hortense asked.  
"You both may, quietly now, before Mrs. Hudson sees!" He let them hold the cup this time, as it was lukewarm now. "Two hands, there, thank you Eugenia, help your sister." Eugenia helped Hortense grasp the warm porcelain. She watched as her sister's eyes sparkled in the lamplight, happy to get the very last sip. Father smiled at both of them, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Off to bed with you now," he nodded towards the door. "There is Mrs. Hudson." Hand-in-hand with her sister, Eugenia went upstairs, the two of them speaking excitedly of such a lovely thing as hot chocolate._

The cup dropped from her hands, and hot chocolate splashed out onto Mycroft's shoes and stained the rug.  
"Good heavens!" Anthea was on her feet in an instant, but she did not scold Eugenia, for the little girl took off running, rag doll in her hands.  
"Never mind it, have Thomas fetch a maid," Mycroft was on his feet, hurrying after the child.

He found her once more in the secret garden. Mycroft had the foresight to take with him his coat and scarf.  
"I won't go in," Eugenia said before he could suggest it. He draped his coat over her, picking her up and settling her on his lap.  
"Then we shan't go in right away." He promised.  
"I don't want to go back either," Eugenia said, her voice small.  
"Go back?" Mycroft asked, he tilted his head so he could look at her. "What do you mean go back?"  
"I won't go home, I can't. Everything will remind me of…" she trailed off, hugging the rag doll tighter.  
"You'll have to go home someday," he said gently. "Your papa would miss you terribly, and Hermia, and Mrs. Hudson and Miss Hooper-"  
"I won't, I won't!" Eugenia struggled against him, and he held her fast, shushing her.  
"You won't right away," he promised. "You can't. But sooner or later you will, you cannot hide yourself from this grief forever, it doesn't do to ignore life for the sake of fear." She was still tense in his arms, staring straight ahead. "You'll stay here for now," he reassured her. "You must at any rate. But your Aunt and I won't send you away, not until you're ready."  
"What if I never am?" she asked softly.  
He rested his chin on the top of her head, sighing a little. "You won't want to put it aside forever. Right now you do, because it's easier than facing the facts, and much less painful. But it's exhausting. Someday, you will want to go home."  
Eugenia bowed her head, shutting her eyes tightly. "This is my home now," she murmured.  
Mycroft did not respond, he squeezed her gently, rubbing her arms. In a little while, he lifted her, bringing her back to the house.

 **221b Baker Street, that evening**  
Hermia had fallen asleep against Molly, tears still staining her pale face. Taking a warm washcloth, she wiped the little girl's face, carding her fingers gently over her head.  
"Miss Hooper?"  
Molly turned, seeing Sherlock in the doorway. He held in his hands a parcel, turning it over and over. He looked at his eldest in her arms, and his shoulders relaxed somewhat. "She's finally fallen asleep," Molly confirmed.   
"Thank heaven," relief apparent, he again turned to the package in his hands. "You were so kind as to see that my brother and I had a remembrance of Hortense," he said, thrusting the box her. "I thought you must have one too…"  
She took it from his outstretched hand, not knowing what to say. He sat on the corner of the bed, by her feet, watching as she worked the paper apart. Inside the plain brown paper sat a black watered silk box, and nestled in the cotton within was a band of gold, laid with jet. In between the two lines of jet stones it read 'In Memory Of' in plain script. Sherlock reached, taking the ring from the lining, and tilted it so the inside of the band caught the lamplight. Molly could see an inscription in the metal, and taking it from Sherlock's fingers, she turned it, reading:  
 _'Hortense Irene Holmes, died 27th Sept. 1887'_  
Her chin wobbled, and she took a breath, sniffling. "Thank you, sir, it's quite lovely."  
"Shall I-" he gestured to her right hand, which was currently resting on Hermia's shoulder. She lifted it, spreading her fingers, and he slipped it over her middle finger. She held up her hand, admiring the jet in the lamplight, smiling bitter sweetly through her tears.  
"Thank you," she said, and turned to him, eyes shining. "It's something for me to remember her by, and I'm not even her mother…" she trailed off before she spoke out of turn, and Sherlock suddenly wished she had finished the thought, that she might not have been there mother, but she could be, that she felt like she was, in every aspect but blood.  
"I…am pleased it fits," he murmured awkwardly.

Hermia shifted in her sleep and both adults stilled for a moment.  
"I will leave you to it, then," Sherlock stood carefully, looking once more over Hermia. He touched her head, still unused to the feeling of her shorn hair.  
"I'll call if there's need," Molly promised. "Rest, you need it more than any of us."  
"Yes…" he nodded, making to leave. He turned in the doorway, watching as Molly cradled his eldest daughter, humming the lullaby she always sang to the children. She held up her hand again, and Sherlock felt himself smile, genuinely glad, as she admired the ring on her right hand.


	10. A Step Forward and Three Steps Back

Two weeks had passed since Hortense was buried. Sherlock went nightly to her grave. An Irregular was placed there to watch it, tend the flowers and keep it swept.   
“It’s it a tad much?” Molly asked him one afternoon. “Surely she is safe there, if the boy wants to tend the flowers, I don’t object, but a night watch-“  
“I will not risk her being subjected to grave robbers and ignorant ruffians,” Sherlock answered tightly. Molly left the subject alone, for the time being.   
Hermia slowly mended, though the damage of the fever was done, and she was now deaf in her left ear. Watson was not terribly upset about it.  
“It is a small price to pay, considering the state she was in, and that she has been left with her life is a blessing.”   
Molly smiled at Hermia, to cheer her. “Now you needn’t pretend you don’t hear your father or I calling for you!” At this, Hermia could match her smile, genuinely then. 

By the second week, she was able to get out of bed and sit by the window. Mycroft’s gardener had sent her a box of potted plants, succulents and cacti and a fly trap. Hermia wished for books that might tell her how to care for the plants, and so Molly went in search in the library. She found a stack of old botany books and brought them upstairs to the nursery. Hermia would read until her eyes hurt, and so Molly would then read to her. It was good to see Hermia smiling again, her color slowly returning to her. Still, the house felt half-empty, not quite right somehow. The pain of Hortense was very great, and coupled with Eugenia’s absence made it all the harder to bear. Molly had her work to do, as did Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Dickerson. They managed to fill the hours of the day. Sherlock dreaded the end of the two weeks, when the official mourning was over, and he would be forced to return to the working world. 

The third week, it passed the same as the first two, and Sherlock felt as if he were holding himself in suspense of something. Then, Wednesday, notes began to arrive. He read the first four, each one starting ‘I am very sorry for your loss’ or something to that effect. He threw the rest in the fire, and bolted himself into the parlor, playing his violin until the early hours of the morning. 

**Friday afternoon**  
Molly was passing by the open door of the parlor, laden with a tray for the nursery when she heard voices from within. Surprised, and pleased that there was company, she paused to see who had come.  
“Thank you for informing me, Inspector, I am afraid I shall have to decline-“  
“What’s this?” Molly stepped into the doorway of the parlor, both men turned, one looking quite guilty, the other smiling politely at her.   
Sherlock shifted his feet. “Inspector Lestrade informs me there has been a curious string of murders,”  
“Oh?” Lestrade should have been used to Miss Hooper’s interest as opposed to shock when ‘murder’ was mentioned.   
“Yes,” Lestrade said with a nod. “I am unsure as to how they all are related, or if indeed, they are, but I can’t shake the feeling they are, somehow.”  
“And you’d like Mr. Holmes to go along?” Molly asked.   
Lestrade nodded. “It’s been several weeks you see…and…” he paused, uncomfortable. He didn’t like to bring up the still painful subject of Hortense.   
“Hermia is still unwell, you see, Miss Hooper,” Sherlock broke in. “I should not like to leave-“  
Molly interrupted him. “Of course you should go,” she said briskly. She entered the parlor and set the nursery tray down. “It might do you some good, to get out of the house after all. Fresh air might agree with you, and something to divert you. Hermia is well on the mend, quite out of danger. Indeed, Doctor Watson thinks that very soon we shall be able to make our sojourn to the country.” Sherlock frowned at her, surprised. He felt the barest of excitement for the case, that he might perhaps go.   
“You…are able to take care of her for the afternoon? I don’t know how long I shall be, and I am uncertain if you will be able to reach me,” Sherlock said.   
“Nonsense, I can send a Irregular after you if need be, but there shan’t be any need. Besides, if it is a serial murder, you ought to take the case. There shan’t be anything half as exciting in Sussex, I’d wager. A nice case like this is just what you need.” As she spoke she bustled him towards the hall. “Go and say goodnight to Hermia, and I’ll fetch your hat and coat.” Sherlock paused at the doorway, trying to think of something to say, for Miss Hooper was being terribly bossy at this moment, and he dearly wanted to remind her just who was employing who, but he could think of no such argument for his case, and, indeed, he happened to agree with her. Three weeks, though most of it was spent in genuine mourning, he ached for distraction, ached for sights other than the interiors of Baker Street. Hands on her hips, it was clear she was not moving. Sherlock hesitated, then at last nodded. He jogged upstairs and Molly turned back to Inspector Lestrade.  
“Thank you,” he said, quite sincerely.   
Molly nodded as she took down Sherlock’s coat and hat, laying them on the arm of the chair for him. “Hortense’ death has brought him quite low…” she said slowly. “He’s…he’s different, not truly, but…he’s not himself,” she struggled to say what she meant. The death of a child changed a parent, how could it not? Sherlock Holmes was human, no matter what he pretended to think. Realizing she had not spoken for a moment, she blinked, taking a breath as she smiled at Lestrade. “I think the case is exactly what he needs.”  
“I thought as much,” Lestrade agreed. “The man can’t hide from the world forever.”   
“No one should,” Molly agreed. “And certainly not one as necessary as him. Not just the cases, he still has two children who need him very much, as soon as he remembers that, I think he’ll begin to live again.” She stood watching the stairway, waiting for Sherlock to come down. Had she looked at the Inspector, she might have seen an understanding cross over his features, and he fiddled with the brim of his hat, smiling at his shoes.   
“He’s a difficult man,” Lestrade said at last. “But a good one, it took him a while, but I can say for all certainty that for all his faults, Sherlock Holmes is a good man.”   
Molly turned to look at the inspector then. “If only he could believe it,” she answered, thoughtful. “I’ll send him down, Inspector, thank you for stopping by.” Balancing the tray on one arm, she picked up her skirts with her free hand, heading upstairs.   
In the nursery, Sherlock was just pressing a kiss to Hermia’s forehead. Molly waited at the door for him to finish saying goodbye. Crossing the room, he paused at her side, and she was pleased to see a familiar, mischievous twinkle in his eye.   
“Have a marvelous time,” Molly said, and meant it. She set the tray down by Hermia’s bed so the girl could reach it and turned back to Sherlock.   
“I shall be back late,” he was saying. “There is Annie, the younger Irregular downstairs by the gate, she knows to fetch Billy or Dick. I’ll see about finding someone at Barts-“   
“Mr. Holmes,” Molly held up her hands, and placing them on his shoulders, turned him about face and pushed him towards the door. “Where there is a will, there is a way, and I will find you if there is need.”  
“Miss Hooper I cannot promise-“  
“Then I shall promise,” she answered him, a teasing smile. “I shall always find you, Mr. Holmes.” He frowned, allowing himself to be amused by this phrase.  
“That sounds rather ominous.”  
“Good,” she laughed. “Now go on, there’s a murderer on the loose, and Hermia needs to finish her tea. We’re in the middle of a botany crisis.”  
“Very well, goodnight, Hermia!”  
“Goodnight!” she called back. Molly smiled, feeling for one small moment like the world might slowly be getting back to normal. Whenever Sherlock had to leave in the afternoon on a case, the children said goodnight, even if it was the afternoon, for chances were he would not be home until late in the night. 

**East Sussex**  
Eugenia spent most of her days in the secret garden. She wished dearly that it was spring, not the middle of October. There were still four long months until March, and by then it might be too late. Father might demand she come back to London.   
“It is unlikely they will bring Hermia here in the dead of winter,” Mycroft warned her. He spent most of the week in London, but Friday through Sunday, he stayed at the estate. “Winters are bitter out here, I should not think he would bring her here just to coop her up inside by a fire. He might do that at Baker Street and save himself the price of a railway ticket.” He smiled at his niece. “Rest assured, you’ll be busy in your garden soon enough.”   
Eugenia could not abide the black crêpe she was forced to wear. She was certain Hortense would have felt the same way. They both had always had a distinct aversion to the color, not to mention crêpe is an insufferable fabric. But people in mourning must wear black. Mycroft understood the girls’ chafing against propriety. Two years was a dreadfully long time to wear black, and Mycroft was quite certain that once a body was dead, they were dead. They couldn’t possibly take offence at the color of a persons clothing.   
“It is only until January,” he said to her one day as she tugged irritably at the crêpe dress once again.   
Anthea looked up, confused.   
“Surely not, my dear,” she said with a frown, beginning to shake her head. What would people think? A child dies and the family not only does not keep the mourning custom for even an entire winter! Let alone the full two years!   
“After January, grey or purple, and by spring, you may begin wearing colors again.” Eugenia’s eyes alighted at this, and she ran upstairs to make a calendar. “She is so gloomy,” Mycroft excused, before Anthea could protest. “I cannot abide anyone in black, and there is so little to make her happy at the moment. Now she has something to look forward to.”  
“But what will people think?” Anthea protested.   
“Do you think Eugenia will stop mourning her sister?” Mycroft asked. “She will live with that all of her life, it has little to do with the color of her dress.” Anthea lowered her gaze, chastened. Mycroft sighed, rubbing his eyes, he approached her. “I don’t mean to scold you,” he said after a moment. “She is young, and her temperament is already so low. I am obliged to let her mourn in her own way, within reason.” Now, Eugenia had something to look forward to. They could hear her running back downstairs, and she passed by the doorway, coat and hat in hands, skip rope hanging out of her coat pocket.   
“It seems odd…” Mycroft said after a moment. “Hearing a child playing in this house.”  
“You grew up here,” Anthea said with a laugh. “You never played?”  
“Certainly not,” he sniffed.   
“I do hope you’ll get used to the idea of the noise,” she said.   
He shrugged. “My brother’s children are never very noisy, and they will only be here for the summer.”  
“Hmm, and what about our own children?”   
“Our own-“ he turned with a start from the tea things, nearly dropping his cup. “Anthea Elsbeth Mariah Whittaker Holmes-“ He was interrupted by his wife’s laughter, she covered her mouth with her hands. It seemed so very strange, seeing her laugh, dressed head-to-toe in black.   
“I didn’t know when to tell you, nor even how, with everything happening,”   
“My dear,” he set his cup and saucer aside, taking her hands in his and pressing them reverently. “You’re certain? How far along?”  
“Almost four months, I only just learned a few weeks ago.”   
“I think we shall keep this to ourselves for the time being,” Mycroft said, and Anthea nodded, though she was smiling.   
“You’re not upset though?”  
“Certainly not,” he said. “And…while our charming niece is so busy outside, and a myriad of staff are looking out for her, I suggest we sojourn upstairs, where I may properly show you just how very pleased I am.” Mycroft took great delight in the blush that spread across his wife’s features as he took her by the hand and they slipped away upstairs. With the door locked and the staff busy with their own duties, they remained for several hours, quite undisturbed. 

**221b Baker Street, London**  
Watson had carried Hermia downstairs, allowing that she had enough of the nursery, and too that the room needed a proper airing, so shutting the door of the nursery (Hermia’s plants well covered up), the windows along the wall were thrown wide open, and fresh, clean, cold autumn air filled the room.   
Settling Hermia by the fire, with her right side facing the doorway so she could hear, he stepped aside so Molly could tuck a blanket around her.   
“I’m glad to be wearing clothes again, even if it must be black,” Hermia said.   
“We must all wear black,” Molly answered her. “Now, here is your book, and I’ll see if Mrs. Dickerson will send up something warm for you to drink.” She turned then to Watson who was finding his coat and hat.   
“I must be off, Holmes has sent me half a dozen messages between my house and here,”  
“Trouble with the case?” Molly asked, to which Watson shook his head.  
“No, or rather, yes, but in a good sense. Needs an extra pair of hands, and Mary is insisting I go along.”  
“I’m glad,” Molly nodded, folding her hands at her middle. The jet and gold on her finger caught the light, and Watson realized she was wearing a ring he had not seen before.   
“That is pretty, is it for Hortense?” he asked quietly. Molly unfolded her hands with a start, looking at the ring. She was used to wearing it now, and was grateful for the little piece to remember Hortense by.   
“Yes, Mr. Holmes gave it to me.”  
“That was kind of him,” Watson said, and Molly nodded.  
“I didn’t see, may I?” At mention of her sister’s name, she’d stopped reading her book, leaning to see what the two adults were talking about. Molly held out her hand for her to see.   
“It’s black,” Hermia objected.   
“Of course it is,” Molly said. “But look, here is your sister’s name on the inside.”  
“It’s to remember her by?” Hermia asked, and Molly nodded. “I wish I had something to remember her with,” she said after a moment. “I haven’t even got her favorite book anymore.” There was a somber silence that followed, until Hermia turned back to her book. Molly stood, slipping the ring back onto her finger, smiling gently at Watson.   
“I’ll say goodnight now, since I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other until tomorrow,”   
Watson nodded. “Right,” he nodded, smiling kindly to Hermia, who wished him well on the case. “I’ll leave you to it, I’ll see myself out, goodnight Miss Hooper, Hermia!” 

The case lasted nearly a week, and each morning, before he went off to his laboratory in the basement, or to St. Barts, or wherever the next lead sent him to, Sherlock would come to the nursery and tell what the latest information was, what he deduced from clues, and who he wanted to find next. He rattled off deductions and theories as Molly picked over her mending pile and Hermia trimmed her plants and watered them. They liked hearing about the case as much as Sherlock seemed to be enjoying working on it. Molly was glad for the case, not so much for the murdered people, but that it meant Sherlock was working again. Still, it did not mean they had forgotten for one moment that they were still mourning a very great loss. Thursday evening, after Sherlock stepped out for his nightly visit to Hortense’ grave, Molly and Hermia were in the parlor, looking through the scrap bag. Hermia wanted to make Eugenia a little gift. She felt very bad that Eugenia was all by herself in Sussex, and would continue to be so until March.   
“I’m not very good at sewing,” Hermia said as she picked through the bag.   
“Practice makes perfect,” Molly reminded her.   
“Yes but I want her to have a nice gift, not something I practiced on,” Hermia sighed.   
“Why not save your pennies and buy her something?” Molly asked. “A nice book, or a new doll cannot be very expensive.”   
“I want to buy her a ring,” Hermia declared. “A nice ring with her initials, hers and Hortense.” She looked at Molly. “How much would that cost?”   
“I’ll tell you what,” Molly set aside her mending. “Save your allowance up until February, and at the beginning of the month, I shall match whatever you’ve saved up, and we’ll go together and find a ring for your sister.” This pleased Hermia, and so the plan was settled. In a little while, Mrs. Hudson came in with a note.   
“Mr. Holmes says he’s got a break in his case, he’ll be a little while.”  
“What, he’s solved it already?” Molly asked and the housekeeper nodded, smiling.   
“He’ll be home for dinner after all, I’ll make sure there’s a place for him.”  
“Thank you Mrs. Hudson,” Molly called after her. “There, that should cheer you, dinner won’t be so lonely now, just the two of us.”   
Hermia smiled, thoughtful. After a moment, she looked up from her book, thoughtful. “It seems strange, just the three of us in the house. I’m used to Eugenia being in Sussex, it’s as if she’s gone on holiday. But I keep looking for Hortense as if she’s just upstairs.”   
“I feel the same way,” Molly answered, quiet. She looked at her mending, her ring glittering in the lamplight as she worked. “Mrs. Dickerson made peppermint creams yesterday, and she sent them up to the nursery, I think that she forgot peppermint creams were always Hortense’ favorites.” She gave a half-smile as Hermia pulled a face, remembering.   
“What did you do with them all?” Hermia asked.   
“Oh I gave them to the Irregulars outside, I couldn’t think of what else to do with them,” Molly said. “The poor woman was so upset that she’d forgotten, I didn’t have the heart to send them back downstairs.”  
“I think we should ask Mrs. Dickerson to make our favorites,” Hermia said, quite seriously. “To help her forget about her mistake.”   
“Oh yes?” Molly asked, laughing. “Such as what?”  
“Jelly!” Hermia crowed, throwing her hands in the air. “And milk pudding, and biscuits and…and…jam roly poly!”   
“Jam roly poly, if you eat all of that you’ll be roly poly!” Molly laughed and reaching out, she gathered Hermia in her arms, tickling her.  
“I shan’t, I shan’t!” Hermia laughingly protested. “I’ll share them!”  
“Oh well that’s very reassuring!” Molly retorted with a grin, releasing Hermia. 

“My! I never thought I’d hear laughter from this house!” 

Molly and Hermia turned with a start to see a woman in the doorway. Molly had never seen her before in her life. She was tall and elegant, looking very much as if she’d stepped right off the pages of The Queen. Her hair was dark as coal, and her eyes were wide and sharp. The woman seemed to exude confidence and power, that Molly nearly forgot for a moment that she had simply pushed in.   
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Molly stood, straightening her skirt. “Mr. Holmes has stepped out, and he is currently working on a case, if you’ll leave your card, I shall be more than happy to give it to him when he returns.”  
“You’re very sure of yourself,” the woman said with a smile Molly was not quite sure how to read. “I think I’d rather stay and see him personally.”   
Molly did not know for a moment what to say or do. The woman had set aside her umbrella, and was in the midst of removing her stole and purse when Hermia, who had been silent for so long at last spoke:  
“Mother!” she flung herself upon the woman before Molly could stop her.   
“Oh…goodness, well…yes, very nice to see you too,” the woman did not even put her arms around Hermia. She patted her awkwardly.   
“Mother,” Hermia said again, staring in awe up at the woman. “You’re here, you’re here…” her voice was so fond and wondering, so completely adoring of the strange woman that Molly, for a moment, nearly yanked Hermia away from her in a fit of jealousy.   
“Yes, well…of course I am. I had quite forgotten…” the woman looked up from Hermia to Molly again. “And you are?”  
“I am the children’s governess,” Molly felt the hollowness in her voice, and found it difficult to swallow. She had forgotten the children had a mother. Indeed, she had played the part for so long herself that she had forgotten there ever was a woman who bore the children. Now here she was, and Hermia was not releasing her, and Molly felt suddenly her position at 221b Baker Street was very, very precarious, and it was not the loss of employment that made her heart break. Sherlock Holmes would see the woman who bore his children, and so soon after losing Hortense, and there would be a reconciliation, of course there would be. There would be no need for a governess, and Molly would have to leave the people she loved most and best in her life. The woman was talking, Molly realized, and she had not heard a single word.   
“I’m sorry I-“   
“Now, um…” the woman frowned at Hermia, who still had not released her hand. “Hortense, will you go upstairs and play with your sisters? I must speak with your father.”   
Molly looked at Hermia, who was staring at her mother. Her expression fell, and Hermia looked positively monstrous then. Molly realized if she did not stop the child then, things might be said that could not be taken back. To make matters worse, the door opened, and Sherlock skipped in, tossing his hat. He pressed a kiss to Hermia’s capped head (she had taken to wearing bed caps to keep the chill away from her head until her hair began to grow).   
“The sister! Hermia! We were right it was the sister! Here, look, Miss Hooper you were right!” He had run into the parlor without any glance at who was standing by the sofa. He scooped up Molly without a thought, pressing her cheek. “You brilliant woman! The sister indeed, there will never be a woman who does not surprise me, not as long as I live, you lot hate to be predictable!”   
“Mister Holmes!” Molly struggled against his arms, and he set her down. The look of confusion and hurt nearly broke her, but she forged ahead. “You have a guest, sir…the former Mrs. Holmes,” he turned with a start as she went on quietly: “I’m sorry, I don’t know her new name,” she said, softly.   
Sherlock Holmes looked as if he’d gotten his hand stuck in a biscuit jar. “Miss Adler…” He looked shocked and confused, of course he would be. Molly could not bear to see him looking so wonderingly at Irene Adler anymore, so she lowered her head, staring at the carpet, willing her blurred vision to dissipate. The tears did not fall, and she thanked heaven for small mercies. She cleared her throat:  
“I’m sorry, sir, she pushed in and I didn’t know who she was-“ Sherlock was about to reassure her that it was not her fault, but Hermia, who had been standing in silent fury all that while suddenly reach forward and punching Irene Adler as hard as she could.   
“Hermia!” Molly could only say her name, shocked.   
“Hortense is dead!” Hermia screeched, and stamping once more on Irene’s foot, she sprinted from the room, thumping up the stairs and slamming the door of the nursery behind her. Irene, looking very much humbled by the entire display, stood very still. Molly picked up her skirts, stepping between them. “I’ll go and see to her,” she said.   
“I’ll come too,” Sherlock said, meaning to follow, but Molly stopped him.   
“No,” she shook her head. “No, you...sort this out. Let me have a few moments alone with Hermia, I don’t know as she’ll want to see you,” she looked directly at Irene Adler then. “Either of you.”


	11. In the Middle of a Moment

Sherlock heard the door to the nursery open and close, and was glad that Hermia had let Molly in. He disliked the uncomfortable silence that settled between himself and Irene.  
Heaving a sigh, he swiveled around, moving to gather her discarded wraps. “I would imagine with your showing up uninvited, with no luggage, nor any letter stating your impending arrival, you have decided to push in for the night?” he asked.  
Irene shrugged. “You never could say no to me,” she answered. “Anyway I left my luggage in the hall. Of course if it isn’t convenient-“  
“Of course it isn’t bloody well convenient!” Sherlock snapped, quite furious. “Good God, woman, I have just buried one of my children, one is in the country, unable to come home, the other has lost hearing in one of her ears and can barely stand long enough to focus on the far wall, let alone walk!”  
Irene bowed her head. “She was my daughter too, you know,” she said quietly.  
Sherlock looked up at her, incredulous. “I believe you forfeited the right to call them yours when you signed the divorce papers and left without telling anyone.” They held each other’s gaze for a moment before Sherlock slumped somewhat. “Come through to the drawing room. Parlor is for family and clients.” He turned on his heel, pausing in the hall to hang up her coat and stole.  
Irene seated herself by the fire as Sherlock closed the door behind him.  
“What do you want, Irene? Has something happened?”  
“Tell me about the children,” she sidestepped his question, though to her credit, she seemed genuinely interested.  
He remained by the table, picking absently at the varnish. “There isn’t much to tell,” he answered tiredly. “Hortense, the youngest, is dead. Hermia has been spared. Eugenia is with her uncle and aunt in the country.”  
Irene nodded. “What did she die of?”  
Sherlock left the table, moving to the side table to take down a glass, pouring himself a glass of brandy. The pain of losing Hortense was still too fresh, and he wished keenly to dull it. For the moment, alcohol would do.  
“Scarlet fever,” he answered, once he’d taken a drink. “Eugenia did not contract it, which is why she must remain in the country for the time being…only until the risk of infection is gone.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
Sherlock turned with a start, surprised. Irene had never apologized for anything in her life. Not for her behavior, nor her feelings, and certainly not to him.  
She looked at him then, and he was dumbfounded that he could read genuine humility on her face. “Truly, I am,” she went on. “I…confess it is nothing what I expected, coming here-“  
“Hm, yes, which you still have not said why you are here,” Sherlock interrupted. “I am not one for social niceties, you know this already, but it’s rather shabby of you to push in when, now armed with the knowledge that the family is in deep mourning, you continue to stay.”  
“I still gave birth to her, Sherlock!” Irene burst out, finally angry. She swallowed, gaining control of herself once more. “You should know me by now, Sherlock, I never do things by halves. I could not be a mother during the day and go on with my life as I was. How could I? I was unsuitable for a wife, and I’d be a terrible mother, we both know it. But that doesn’t change that I still carried them. All of them.”  
It was a night of firsts. Irene had never cried in his presence. She’d always put up a cool and calculating front. It was her most infuriating habit. Uncaring, manipulative, scheming. Those were the traits he associated with Irene. He supposed before he’d become a father he was all of those things to a very large degree. He hoped fatherhood had lessened them.  
“I am glad,” Irene began again, having wiped her eyes. “-that you were able to care for something of mine.”  
Sherlock looked at his glass, sorry he had poured himself so much. “They are nothing like you,” he answered with a shrug. “It is easy to love them.”  
Irene nodded, smiling bitterly through her tears. “I deserved that, I expect.” She looked up at him. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out between us, truly.”  
“As am I. Perhaps we’d have been spared this…” again words were difficult and they seemed stuck in his throat. “Loss…” that was all he managed before he felt the need to turn his back to her, blinking furiously. He took a gulp of brandy, wincing as he swallowed. 

Upstairs in the nursery, Hermia lay unmoving on Molly’s lap.  
“I hate her,” she murmured vehemently.  
“Don’t say hate,” Molly cautioned. “Hate is a strong word. Anyway, you’ve got to know someone to be allowed to hate them.”  
“She’s my mother,” Hermia answered bitterly. “She didn’t even know who I was.”  
Molly stroked her scalp, trying to comfort her. “She’s been gone for almost two years now,” she tried.  
Hermia sat up, glaring accusatorily. “You sound like you’re defending her.”  
“Just playing devil’s advocate,” Molly answered with a shrug. She drew Hermia back onto her lap, wrapping her arms around her. After a moment, she felt Hermia relax against her. “You must remember, Hermia, you lost a sister, but she’s come back only to learn that she has lost a daughter. Perhaps she doesn’t know you as well as she should, but you must not hate her. She is just as fallible as the rest of us.”  
Hermia held onto Molly’s arms as if she were her life-preserver. She stared at the far wall, not wanting to give up her anger or hurt yet. Gently, Molly began to rock them back and forth.  
“You’ve every right to be angry at her,” Molly went on slowly. “I will not tell you not to feel what you do. Feelings rarely make sense, do they?” Hermia did not answer, and she did not expect her to. Molly wanted dearly to stop speaking, to stop coaxing Hermia not to hate her mother. But Molly Hooper was not heartless, and she knew a child needed their mother, especially at such a time. She must encourage affection, not dissuade it. If Irene Adler decided to stay and take up her duties as mother and wife, then Molly would step aside. She had no claim on the children, and unfortunately, love, no matter how desperately strong, had no say in such matters. “I will say this, and then change the subject:” Molly promised. “She is still your mother. She made a very terrible mistake tonight-“  
“She abandoned us,” Hermia said in quiet anger.  
“Yes,” Molly soothed her. “And that will hurt for a very, very long time. For as long as you will let it hurt you. But listen to me, she is your mother. She made a terrible mistake, but you do not know her. I will not tell you to hold to her all the duties of a mother, because she has not behaved as one, but you must at least give her the courtesy you would of a common stranger.”  
Hermia sighed heavily, kicking aimlessly for a moment so that she slid further down onto Molly’s lap.  
“You mean be civil,” she grumbled.  
“Yes,” Molly answered. “Be civil. Be the better person. I don’t expect you to write her long letters or to kiss her good morning, but I expect you to have manners, the same as you would to a client of your father’s. Do you understand?”  
Hermia turned her head, looking at the far wall again. “I understand.” She sighed again, finally looking up at Molly. “I don’t like it, but I will try.”  
Molly smiled and bent, kissing her forehead. With their backs to the doorway, they did not see Sherlock standing there, having quietly let himself in.  
“That’s my girl,” Molly smiled gently, soothing Hermia’s scalp.  
Sherlock watched as Hermia regarded Molly, her eyes soft and shining, her expression quite serious.  
“I wish you were my mother.” He watched as Molly smiled gently, her eyes grew misty and she blinked several times. Again she bent and pressed a kiss to Hermia’s forehead.  
“Do you wish that too?” Hermia asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.  
Molly linked hands with the child, squeezing. She found she could not lie to Hermia, not to protect herself, not to protect the child.  
“Darling girl, I wish that very much,” her voice was strained, and Sherlock could hear her struggling to keep from crying.  
Upon this confession, Hermia shut her eyes, sighing lightly. Molly ran her fingers over her head, helping her to relax and fall asleep.  
“Will you sing please?” Hermia asked softly, and Molly began, humming her favorite lullaby. As she did so, something moving by the door caught the corner of her eye and she turned her head. Sherlock stood in the doorway with such a strange expression on his face. He looked as if he were about to cry.  
Quietly, he cleared his throat. “Miss Hooper,” he whispered, so as not to disturb Hermia. “When she is settled, will you please come to the drawing room?” 

Downstairs, Irene remained in the drawing room. In a little while she heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to see Sherlock again entering the room.  
“Is she good for the children?” Irene asked suddenly. “Your governess?”  
He looked surprised at her query, and it took him a moment to gather his thoughts. He had known for some time that Molly was excellent with the children, and was very fortunate that they adored her, and vice-versa. He had not stopped to truly meditate on just how good Molly Hooper was for his children. He found, now faced with Irene’s question, that he could not find words to describe it.  
“She is…” he licked his lips, thinking carefully. “A singular woman, most suitable for the position.”  
Irene studied him, and he recognized that particular look.  
“You’re plotting something,” he stated.  
“Me? Heavens no. Just coming to an understanding.” She smiled at him then. “I am glad she makes the children happy.”  
“You’re not saying something,” Sherlock said, a warning in his tone.  
She looked at him with mock surprise. “Am I? I thought I’d said what I ought to. Let’s leave it at that, anyway here is Miss Hooper,” she stood as Molly came to the doorway.  
“You sent for me, Mr. Holmes?” she glanced between her employer (she did not like the bitter lurch in her chest every time she remembered that was all he was to her) and Miss Adler.  
“I did,” he nodded, gesturing for her to enter the room. “Please, be seated.” Gathering her skirts, Molly stepped past him, taking the corner of the couch that put her at equal distance between Mr. Holmes and Miss Adler. She kept her eyes lowered, knowing all too well that if she looked at her employer, she might say something that could not be taken back. She would not put herself into such a position, not with Miss Adler in the room, nor indeed, if she was uncertain of how Mr. Holmes would respond. Sherlock crossed the room, moving to stand by the fire.  
“Miss Hooper, Miss Adler has turned up on our doorstep begging for sanctuary.”  
At this, Molly lifted her head, confused. “What?” She quelled the leap in her heart upon his stating ‘our doorstep’. He must not have meant it the way it sounded.  
“She seems to have run in with a gang of…people of the unsavory sort, shall we say?”  
Irene nodded. “That’s putting it nicely,” she agreed. “I’m hiding out here for the time being until Sherlock can find a way to smuggle me safely away.”  
“Where will you go?” Molly couldn’t help but ask.  
Irene shrugged with a smile. “Oh I don’t know, anywhere his brother can find for me.”  
“Lord Mycroft?” Molly asked with a frown, looking to Sherlock. “What can he do?”  
“Don’t be coy, Miss Hooper,” Sherlock said, a knowing smile gracing his lips. “It doesn’t suit you.”  
“Forgive me,” she turned, angling herself towards Miss Adler. “But what will you do while you are here? Won’t it seem obvious, coming to your former husband’s home? It’s hardly a good hiding place. Won’t it be the first place they look?”  
Sherlock had such a smug look, pleased with Molly’s reasoning, and the illogic in Irene’s decision.  
“Precisely. Time is of the essence,” Sherlock said. “I have sent my brother a cable. He’ll be here by tomorrow, hopefully with a solution.”  
“I’m sorry if I’m dense,” Molly spoke again, Irene and Sherlock turned to her. “But I don’t understand, what good is it, hiding here as opposed to a hotel?”  
The look Irene held as she studied Miss Hooper gave Sherlock a sinking feeling.  
“Why, Miss Hooper? Am I interrupting something between the pair of you? I did not know that a murder threat against me would put such a damper on your flirtation with your employer.”  
Molly grew quite red then. “I did not mean that, Miss Adler, I meant that clearly, your choice of sanctuary was a foolish one, considering your history with Mr. Holmes and his children. It is known in most of society that you and he were once married, and only divorced a little over two years ago. As for ‘flirtation’, you could not be more wrong.” She drew breath. “I am merely an employee in this house, fit only to educate the children and look after them. I am sure Mr. Holmes has never considered me in any role beyond this-“  
Sherlock looked at Molly as she spoke, and he found himself sad as she went on to belittle her position, her standing in the house. It was true, she was the governess, but he could not say with any degree of confidence that his feelings for her did not go beyond that of employer.  
“-Furthermore, Mr. Holmes has never done or said anything lacking in propriety to me,” Molly said (the incident of her taping his ribs would go unmentioned). “He is not interested in me, has never shown interest in me beyond that of friendship and mutual affection for his children. That is all.” Standing, she turned to Sherlock. “Forgive me, sir. I will say goodnight now, before I say anything more out of turn. I must go and see to Hermia.” With that, she turned on her heel and left.  
Irene watched as Sherlock stared after the governess. She was certain then of two things: Sherlock most certainly had never looked at her the way he looked at Miss Hooper, and that the pair of them were quite unaware of their feelings for each other.  
As Molly headed upstairs, she could hear Sherlock speaking to Irene:  
_“Really, was that necessary to force her to speak of her position?” he scolded. “You cannot leave anyone alone, can you? Must you humiliate her as well?”  
“Honestly, how was I to know she felt so strongly on the matter, anyway it wasn’t as if she was very civil to me.”  
“You are hardly civil this evening! You were very cold, no doubt, when you arrived tonight. Hermia and I are not the only ones in mourning.” Sherlock replied. “She has a right to be suspicious, and you have no right to treat Molly- Miss Hooper, in such a fashion, she is a perfect stranger to you.”  
“And you, Sherlock.”_  
Molly would not listen anymore. Part of her wanted to hear what Sherlock would say, but the other half begged her to go upstairs, unwilling to hear him confirm just precisely what she was to him: a governess to his children. Shutting her eyes tightly, swallowing hard, Molly retreated back to the nursery.  
Seeing that Hermia was fast asleep, Molly banked the fire and quickly undressed, slipping into her bed, wishing her racing heart would slow. She did not know when her feelings for Sherlock Holmes had changed, she didn’t know why, or how. It was foolish to try and convince herself otherwise. She would not allow herself to name her feelings for Sherlock, but the idea of leaving, the idea of the beautiful Irene Adler in the house and under his nose made her head ache. It made her upset and restless and she did not like that she felt the foundations of her life beginning to quake. She did not like to picture him downstairs in the warm drawing room, the lamps low as Irene Adler lounged on the sofa. Perhaps they were reconciling. The idea made her groan in frustration, fighting back a sob. She rolled onto her side, hugging herself. What right did she have for these feelings? Still, as she lay there, pondering just what exactly was wrong with her compared to Irene Adler, Molly realized something very telling about the former Mrs. Holmes: her reason for returning to such an obvious place to hide said that she still must have felt something for Sherlock. Whether or not Sherlock felt the same, Molly did not know, but she knew if he felt anything at all for Miss Adler, Molly did not stand a chance at all. 

**Downstairs**  
“I won’t hear anymore of Miss Hooper from you,” Sherlock said. “You may have Watson’s old room, I trust you know where it is still, and that you can manage your bags on your own.”  
“Will you tell me something?” Irene asked as he made to leave.  
He stopped, turning his head so she could see his profile. “Depending on what it is.”  
“Does Miss Hooper know you love her?”  
Sherlock whirled about face, open-mouthed.  
“She won’t learn it from me,” Irene promised. “If my word were any good here, I should give you it. But she ought to know I’m not a threat to her, or the children, nor you. I couldn’t abide staying here with her mistrusting me. It’s absolutely hell, thinking the man you love might love someone else.”  
Sherlock had no response. He finally nodded and hurried upstairs to his room. 

**Sussex, Holmes Estate**  
“Where are you going?” Anthea asked, feeling the bed dip as her husband got to his feet. She could hear the butler in his dressing room, opening the wardrobe.  
“Trouble in London,” he replied tiredly. “Jameson has delivered a most distressing cable.”  
She sat up. “Not Hermia!” the thought of Hermia succumbing to illness again so soon after Hortense’ death was too awful to contemplate, but Anthea could not help but ask it.  
“No, thank heavens, the child is fine.” Mycroft reassured her. “It’s another matter entirely, I should like it dealt with as soon as possible.”  
“What is it?” Anthea asked, seeing he was distressed.  
“Miss Adler has come back to London, seeking help from my brother.”  
“The nerve of that woman!” Anthea shook her head, disgusted.  
“I concur,” he leaned across the bed, kissing her gently. “I shall be back in a day or so, hopefully with the problem resolved, if not having a solution.”  
“What is the matter with her that she’s come crawling back to London?” Anthea asked with a huff, folding her arms across her middle. Sherlock might not have been her first choice for a brother in-law, but he had grown on her over the years, and she felt a strong desire to keep him well away from such a difficult woman as Irene Adler. The mess she had left in her wake, of Sherlock’s isolation from his children, the sleepless nights of his daughters all sobbing for their mother, the anguish she’d caused was more than enough to earn Anthea’s disdain.  
“Miss Adler got herself into trouble somewhere on the Continent. She stupidly came back to London, and I should like to get her out of my brother’s house before she leads whomever is chasing her to his front door.”  
“You have to relocate her?” Anthea asked. “Will you increase her stipend?”  
“I think I must.”  
Anthea rolled her eyes, genuinely incensed. “Quite a racket she has going,” she said icily. “Divorced from the family yet she still whistles and not one but two Holmes men come running.”  
“Anthea-“ Mycroft began but Anthea shook her head.  
“No, it’s perfectly fine.”  
“I cannot leave him to face her on his own,” Mycroft said. “You know she’s come at a vulnerable time for him. If she is not gotten rid of soon, she might never leave, or worse, get him mixed up in whatever trouble she’s embroiled in.”  
Anthea sighed heavily. “Yes I know. Go and help him.” There was suddenly a mischievous twinkle in her eye, and Mycroft couldn’t help but smile. “Why don’t you send her somewhere less exotic this time…like the United States. I should like to imagine her languishing on the barren prairies of North America.”  
Mycroft grinned at this.  
“I shan’t make any promises,” he said. “But sometimes, my darling wife, you do have the most enticing ideas.” He bent and kissed her once more. “I’m going to dress, I’ll be back in a day or so, don’t alarm Eugenia, or alert her that her mother is in the country.”  
“No I won’t,” Anthea promised. “Be safe.” 

**221b Baker Street, London**  
Molly tossed and turned for most of the night, until finally, near two o’clock in the morning, she kicked back the blankets and found her dressing gown. A mug of warm milk mixed with laudanum would soon put her to rights. Creeping down into the kitchen, she sighed heavily, still trying to convince herself that her feelings could not possibly be that of love. She couldn’t be in love with Sherlock. It was inappropriate, impossible, ridiculous! The sensible side of her said she most certainly was.  
She made her way around the dark kitchen, taking down a mug and finding a bottle of milk in the ice box. She had just lit the stove and set a pot to warm when she heard:  
“I don’t suppose you would mind making enough for two?”  
She turned with a start, seeing Sherlock standing in the doorway, clearly he was having as much trouble sleeping as she was.  
“No, sir, I don't mind,” she felt her face grow warm, and she was grateful for the dim light in the kitchen. Turning back to add more milk to the pot, she felt herself dismayed, hearing him strike a match, and the chimney of the lamp lowered. A warm glow filled the room. Silence settled between them. She could not go on staring at the stove with nothing to do so she turned. Now with the kitchen lamp lit, she could see him properly, and did not know if she was dismayed or pleased to see that he wore no dressing gown. His shirttails were untucked, and the first three buttons at his collar were undone. His braces hung down by his hips and his feet were bare. She was suddenly reminded of her first encounter with him. She hated herself for her lack of words. Indeed it took her almost thirty seconds to realize she was staring at him.  
Sherlock broke the silence first. “My brother tells me that while we are in the country this summer he will have electricity installed,” he said. “That will make a change, won’t it?”  
“Yes…sir,” she murmured, still flushed. “I…I daresay it will be a welcome change to the house.” Bowing her head, she turned back to the stove, willing the milk to be warm. It unfortunately, was far from it.  
Sherlock ventured a step forwards. “You are blushing, Miss Hooper.”  
“If I am it’s your fault!” she answered quickly, daring a glance at him.  
“Mine?” he chuckled, surprised. “Why? What have I done?”  
“Coming downstairs as you are,” she answered. “No…no dressing gown or- or-“  
“Or what, Miss Hooper?”  
“Or slippers…” she finally said. “You’ll...catch your death of cold down here.”  
His smile was very knowing, as if he were reading her mind, and Molly wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad thing. Again, he stepped closer.  
“How kind of you to be concerned for my welfare.”  
“It’s nothing,” she murmured feebly. “If Doctor Watson were to-“  
“Watson does not live here, nor would he let himself be seen by anyone in a state of undress that was not his wife,” Sherlock answered.  
“Why are you doing this?” she murmured, turning back to the stove, head bowed.  
“Doing what?” he asked.  
Molly felt her heart lurch, she had not meant to say it aloud!  
“Behaving as you are!” she answered, still facing the stove.  
“Molly.”  
“It’s indecent,” she went on. “I admit I am the one that started it, coming downstairs when I did that first night, but you- you seem to take some sort of pleasure in making me embarrassed at your state of undress.”  
“That is the very last thing I mean to do,”  
His voice was so near that she turned with a start, nearly bumping noses with him.  
His arms hung at his sides, and neither of them breathed for a moment.  
For the rest of her life, Molly would swear he leaned in at that very second. He had inclined his head the barest of inches, regrading her with half-lidded eyes. Heart thudding in her chest, Molly Hooper was trapped between Sherlock Holmes and the stove behind her and she found she did not want to move. He was smiling at her, truly smiling at her, dipping his head –

 _Clang! Clang! Clang!_  
The front bell rang, and both of them jumped, but did not step away. It didn’t matter. The moment was gone. “That will be Mycroft,” Sherlock said quietly. “He must have caught the midnight train.” Molly blinked, angry at the lost moment, upset that she would not know what was about to happen. “You should let him in then,” she said, breathless.  
Sherlock looked frustrated, and she wanted to know why, but he only nodded at her in agreement.  
“Yes I expect I should,” he stepped away then. “If you would be so good as to leave a mug for me on the table, I shall come back for it.”  
She nodded. “Yes I will. Goodnight sir.”  
It was the ‘sir’ that caught him, and Sherlock found it distasteful. He did not want to be merely ‘sir’ to Molly. He turned to face her again.  
“Goodnight, _Molly._ ” And with that he left the kitchen, heading upstairs to let his brother in.  
Again, Molly Hooper was left frozen in place. He spoke her name. He said it like a prayer. No matter how much she tried, she could not quell the bit of hope that welled inside her. If this was to be her only memory of Sherlock Holmes, she would cherish it, for in that moment they were simply man and woman, rather than master and governess.


	12. I Have a Bad Feeling About This

Not a word was spoken the following morning on what had transpired in the kitchen the previous evening, for which Molly wasn’t sure if she was grateful or not. If Mycroft knew, (which she was certain he knew something) he did not say a word. As it was Mrs. Hudson’s day off, Molly rose an hour early to help Mrs. Dickerson put together breakfast before returning to the nursery to get Hermia dressed.   
“Is she still here?” Hermia asked as Molly buttoned her up.   
“Who? Miss Adler, yes of course she is.”  
“Will she be at breakfast?”   
“I don’t know, great ladies don’t usually keep to normal hours. I expect I’ll be bringing her a tray in a little while.”   
“Oh don’t,” Hermia said crossly. “Let her come down and eat with us. Why should she have anything special if she’s inconveniencing us?”   
“Hermia,” Molly only spoke her name, but her tone was warning. The child heaved a sigh.   
“Yes, I know, that wasn’t very civil.”   
Molly gave her bottom a gentle pat. “Rightly so. Go on and get your cap before you catch chill, and we’ll go down together.”

Downstairs, Mycroft was already serving himself from the sideboard, he greeted them in turn.   
“Miss Hooper, I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said. “But Miss Adler left a note on her door, I saw it this morning, she’s left a breakfast order.”   
“A what?” Molly took the note from him, reading what had been ordered. She could not say anything else, for she was still only staff, and perhaps Lord Mycroft would not like her saying anything at all. She merely nodded tiredly. “I’ll see to this once Miss Hermia is served.” Pocketing the note, she took a plate from the sideboard and spooned eggs and a sausage onto a plate. Once sure that Hermia was settled, she went downstairs to see what Mrs. Dickerson had to say. 

“She what?” The cook looked positively monstrous. “Prawns?! At this hour?”   
Molly nodded.   
“Apparently there is a kind of prawn soufflé she enjoyed while she was away and wants it for breakfast ‘if it can be managed’.”   
Mrs. Dickerson rolled her eyes. “And I expect she’d like a fresh batch of croissant as well?”  
“Along with a-“ Molly paused to read the note again. “A café crème.”  
“She can’t write ‘coffee with milk’, she has to write it in French?”   
“Perhaps that’s what she’s used to.”  
“Huh!” Mrs. Dickerson slammed a soufflé mold down. “She left that note on the door, you said? Probably hoping Mr. Holmes would see it. Whatever she says, she’s always liked Mr. Holmes from the start, she just didn’t like to be saddled to one person. Soon as the ‘I-do’s’ were said and the honeymoon was spent she came back just foul, all high manners and putting on airs and graces.”   
“Never mind the prawns,” Molly soothed. “She’ll have what the family is having.”   
“But if Mr. Holmes-“  
“I rather think he’d agree with you, Mrs. Dickerson,” Molly said with a small smile. “And I am quite certain she will prefer any breakfast to none at all.”  
“If I had my way…” Mrs. Dickerson muttered, shaking her head. She went to the butler’s pantry and took down a wooden tray. “There, something to carry her majesty’s breakfast up on. There’s little pots of jam and a dish of butter by the icebox. Here’s a clean cup of coffee, I only just took it off the stove, don’t worry about the carafe, I’ll bring it up to the dining room myself. Milk is on the table.” Molly thanked her and then headed upstairs to the dining room again. 

Mycroft was quietly engaging Hermia in a simple game of observation, something she had noticed Sherlock do from time to time with the children. Hermia was having trouble hearing, as her uncle stood to her left.   
“Lord Mycroft,” Molly spoke low, so Hermia would not noticed. Mycroft looked, and Molly tugged her left ear, glancing at Hermia. Mycroft understood, and then quietly moved his to Hermia’s other side. Molly turned back to the sideboard, spooning up eggs, two toast, and a particularly greasy sausage that had been sitting too long in the pan. Molly might not have been able to bring herself to say just what she thought of Miss Adler pushing in, but she couldn’t help but allow herself this tiny, albeit passive-aggressive, act of defiance. Plate covered, she headed upstairs, balancing the tray on her hip as she raised her hand to knock on the guest room. Hearing a door at the far end open, she was surprised to see Sherlock up and about.   
“Good morning sir,” she said and he glanced up from adjusting his collar.   
“Good morning, Molly,” his eyes twinkled at her, though his smile fell when he noticed she was carrying a tray. “For Miss Adler, I presume?”  
“Yes,” Molly looked at the tray. “She left an order for breakfast on her door: a soufflé with prawns, café crème and croissant or a pan au chocolate.”   
Sherlock, looking very incensed, lifted the lid only to see scrambled eggs, a poor looking sausage and toast.   
“I see Mrs. Dickerson has outdone herself,” he said, replacing the lid and Molly smiled, biting her lip to stifle her giggles. “Will you be down for breakfast?”  
“Yes, in just a moment.”  
“Good. See you there,” he turned for the stairs and then paused. “By the way,” he bent low as he passed her so his mouth hovered by her ear. “Your French is excellent, I hope to hear you speak it more in the future.”   
Molly was not certain what possessed her to open her mouth at that moment, but she did. “I could say the same to you, sir.”   
His smile was teasing, almost naughty, and his eyes twinkled at her again. “Perhaps you will.” He continued downstairs. “Don’t be long, Molly.” 

Blushing, and too pleased to be embarrassed for it, Molly knocked on the guest room door before entering.   
“Your breakfast tray, Miss Adler,” she said, setting it on the bedside table. “It is half-past eight,” she threw open the curtains, letting the sun in. Then crossed to the wardrobe and opened it, pulling out what came to hand first, an electric blue day dress of taffeta. Hanging it on the wardrobe, she turned around in time to see Miss Adler take the lid off her tray.   
“I take it Mrs. Dickerson did not like my breakfast order?”   
Molly folded her hands before her, standing her ground. “Mrs. Dickerson didn’t have the items on hand on such short notice. We don’t usually keep prawns in the house, the children have quite an aversion to them.”   
“Hm,” Irene quirked an eyebrow. She looked at Molly steadily, the same way Mr. Holmes did when deducing her. “You don’t like me, do you, Miss Hooper?”   
Molly felt somewhat uncomfortable, but she managed not to figit. “No, Ma’am, I don’t.”   
“Why?”   
“Because you’ve hurt the children terribly. I pity you more than dislike you.”   
“Wouldn’t you like to hear my side of it?” Irene asked as Molly turned to leave.   
She paused by the door, half-turning back to face Irene. “Why? Is it any different from what I’ve already heard?”   
“Depends,” Irene shrugged. “What have you been told?”   
“You wanted a divorce, and then left a day before you said you would, without telling anyone.”  
“Did they mention my affairs?” Irene asked, taking a piece of toast and taking the butter knife.   
Molly shifted. “Yes, the did.”  
“Well then, I expect you know it all then. You must think I’m a loose woman with no morals or conscience.”   
“No, Ma’am,” Molly shook her head.   
Irene looked up in surprise.   
“I think that’s the worst of it. You have a conscience, and I think you do care, but only enough to feel badly, not enough to try and make any difference.” She opened the door then. “I’ll say good morning now. I’ll collect the tray once you come downstairs.”

Downstairs, Hermia had been dismissed from the table, for the Holmes brothers were discussing what to do with Miss Adler.   
“Miss Hooper, I wonder if you would be good enough to take a tray for yourself into the drawing room,” Mycroft said. Molly agreed and went quietly to the sideboard as Sherlock and Mycroft went on speaking quietly.   
“There is nothing underhanded, Molly,” Sherlock spoke up. She turned, surprised that he addressed her by her given in name in front of his brother. “But there are sensitive topics my brother feels are not for your hearing, no matter how imbecilic is may sound.”   
Molly looked at her plate in her hands, shrugging before meeting his gaze. “It’s not my business, sir.”   
Sherlock opened his mouth to contradict her, but Molly didn’t give him the chance, turning quickly and swishing out of the dining room. He turned back to his cup of coffee, only to see his brother staring at him.   
“Shut up, Mycroft.”   
“I only have your best interests at heart-“  
“Then leave it alone, and let me do as I will.”   
Mycroft studied his brother carefully. “Sherlock…”  
“Mycroft,” he replied. “Leave it. Be.”   
“Very well,” the elder Holmes nodded. “Now. Anthea made a suggestion as to Miss Adler’s new location, if we can get the papers sorted, she can be on this evening’s train with an escort of my choosing.”   
“Fine,” 

**Drawing Room, After Breakfast**  
“Finish this set of sums, and then we’ll start on your English lesson,” Molly set down Hermia’s slate and chalk for her to take. Noting the girl’s weary eyes, she paused. “Are you tired?”   
“Only a little, I can finish this first,” Hermia insisted.   
“We’ll take a break after then, English can wait.”  
For a while, there was only the sound of the chalk on the slate, and the threads Molly pulled back and forth through the fabric she was stitching.  
“What’s that for?” Hermia asked.   
Molly was wearing a frown, concentrating on the work at hand. “Your father ripped the lining of his waistcoat, and asked I fix it. I think he’d have been better off with a tailor.”   
“He likes your stitches,” Hermia said, turning back to the slate. “He says that they’re very neat.”   
“Your father likes everything about him to be neat, excepting his parlor,”   
“Knock-knock,”   
Molly and Hermia turned to see Irene at the door.   
“Good morning,” Hermia said, glancing between her mother and Molly, looking to the latter for confirmation that this was appropriate to say. Molly reaffirmed her by repeating her own greeting to Irene.   
“Mind if I join you?” Irene entered then, taking a chair by the window.   
“Hermia is working on her arithmetic at the moment,” Molly informed her. “She is excellent with numbers.”  
“Not as well as Hortense was,” Hermia replied, her eyes crinkling as she smiled. “Remember when we’d all have class in the nursery, and you had to give Hortense extra problems because she always finished before us?”   
Molly’s smile was fond. “I do remember, if I didn’t she’d end up giving you two the answers to your own work!” she nodded. “Dear Hortense,”   
The room fell silent, save for the fire crackling in the hearth.   
“Will you tell me about her?” Irene asked suddenly. “Hermia?”   
The little girl looked up from her slate, from Molly back to Irene. Molly nodded encouragingly for her to go ahead.   
“Well…” Hermia began uncertainly. “She had curly hair, like mine, only now you can’t see how it is usually. Doctor Watson had to shave our heads. But Hortense’ hair was short and curly,”   
“Why was it short?” Irene wanted to know.   
“Eugenia cut it because she was bored one day,” Hermia answered with a shrug.   
Molly stifled a giggle, recalling her first day at work, seeing Hortense standing in a ring of hair, Eugenia brandishing the scissors.   
“She and Eugenia were twins, and they were special together.” Hermia frowned, not sure how to explain it. “It was like watching two halves of a whole person. Hortense was younger but she sometimes acted older. She shared a velveteen rabbit with Eugenia. I guess it was thrown away with all the other toys.”   
Seeing Hermia was near tears, Molly set aside her mending. “Do you remember when she’d wake everyone up singing?”  
“And bouncing on the beds!” Hermia’s sad expression was gone suddenly, and her eyes shone as she laughed. “Father had a cracked rib, and she went bouncing on his bed one morning!”   
Molly covered her mouth, shaking with laughter, recalling the howl of pain Sherlock had let out as Hortense flung herself onto her father’s bed, jostling him.   
“I fail to see how my pain and suffering is a humorous subject.”   
Molly tried to smother her laughter as best she could.   
“It is amusing, you must admit,” Irene said, smiling. She turned back to Hermia. “I wish I could have known her better.”  
“You could have.” Hermia answered softly. The group fell silent, Sherlock and Molly both finding interest in staring at the floor.   
“You’re right,” Irene said, surprising the others. “I could have, and now I never can.”   
Hermia looked at her mother as she realized something quite awful. “I think that’s worse,” she said at last. “We have lovely memories of her forever, but you won’t have anything.”   
The adults all looked at each other, and then at Hermia. For a moment no one spoke, until Mycroft suddenly came to stand in the doorway.   
“The paperwork will be sent over from my London office by late afternoon, everything will be ready for tonight.”   
“Good,” Irene got to her feet quickly. “Well, if they aren’t coming in until after luncheon, I must go to the shops.”   
“Absolutely not-“  
“Are you mad?” Sherlock and Mycroft spoke at once.   
“I won’t go alone,” Irene waved her hands, already stepping past them, grabbing Molly by the hand. “Miss Hooper can come with me.”  
“Irene, you cannot possibly go,” Sherlock ordered. “It is foolish, absolutely foolish to put yourself in the middle of London, undisguised-“  
“Who says I won’t be in disguise?”  
“You do rather stand out,” Mycroft added quietly. “Be sensible, and don’t be hasty.”  
“I am neither sensible or hasty. Miss Hooper shall accompany me to see that I come to no harm.” With that Irene pulled Molly upstairs to the guest room and shut the door.   
“Miss Adler, I think you must listen to Lord Mycroft and Mr. Holmes,” Molly pleaded. Irene turned her back, gesturing for her to start unbuttoning her dress, which Molly did.   
“I must go to the shop,” Irene said. “I need to pick something up and if I’m to leave London tonight, it must be now. I’ll be disguised,”   
“As what?” Molly frowned, helping her out of her dress.   
“Your maid of course, come on, give me your uniform,” Irene hurried to the wardrobe, pulling out a smart emerald green walking suit.   
“My uniform?” Molly was confused.   
“Yes, you silly goose, we’ll trade clothes,” Irene was already taking her hair out. “All I need is to fix my hair,” she paused, looking at Molly’s plain coiffure in the mirror. “And fix yours I think,” she tapped her chin, thinking. “How did Duchess Feodorovna have her hair done?” she seemed to be asking herself, besides which Molly had no idea, so she remained silent.   
“I can’t wear this,”   
Suddenly, half dressed, Irene behind her hooking the clasps of the heavy velvet skirt, Molly found her voice again.   
“What? Of course you can,” Irene scoffed.   
“No, I mean, I can’t wear this, I’m in mourning.”   
“Well, you can’t appear out of the house in black,” Irene countered. “Just pretend you aren’t in mourning.”   
Molly looked at her steadily until Irene rolled her eyes.   
“I think I have something in violet in the back,” she retreated to the wardrobe, digging through her things. “Here, it’s more plum, but it’s got some black in it, and the beads are glass, so they pass almost for jet.”   
“Thank you,” Molly took it from her, grateful. “It’s just…” she looked at her hands, at the memoriam ring Sherlock had given her. “You can’t mourn her, but I can, and…I don’t think I’m ready to let her go yet.”   
Irene smiled gently, finding her eyes were misty. “Well, that is to be expected.” She helped Molly back out of the green skirt and tossed it aside. “You knew her better than I did. In truth after the children were born I was rarely home,”   
“Miss Adler I don’t think-“  
“I suppose I felt if Sherlock could always be away then I could too,” she smiled at Molly’s reflection as she helped her into the dark walking suit. “But you see the trouble was that it turns out once the children were born, he was home quite often. So my secret life was not so secret after all, and you know him, how clever he is, it didn’t take him long to find out just what I was up to.”   
“What?” Molly asked finally.   
“Oh…what wives who stray usually are. I made a friend of an ambassador, who had a friend who had a fondness for opium dens. He took me a few times. I didn’t much like it, but I liked him.”  
“So you went away with him?”   
“No,” Irene shook her head. “I didn’t run away with anyone. Once Sherlock found out what I’d been up to, he gave me an ultimatum: stop my double life or agree to sign divorce papers.” Settling the cape of the dress over Molly’s shoulders, she brushed it down, smoothing out any wrinkles. “I don’t like to be pushed out, so I signed them, but didn’t give them to him until the morning I slipped out.”   
“Why didn’t you simply give them to him before you left?”   
Irene circled her, seeing that everything was in place. She reached forward, straightening the cape. “I hate goodbyes,” she answered simply, but she didn’t look Molly in the eye. “Now! I think we’re all set.”   
Downstairs, Molly waited by the door as Sherlock scolded Irene and instructed her not to put his governess in any unnecessary danger.   
“There’s a handgun in Miss Hooper’s purse, should we need it, which I doubt. I’m only needing a few things.”   
Before Sherlock could offer his opinion of the situation once more, Irene opened the door and took Molly by the arm, tugging her out onto the stoop. “We’ll be back before long!” she called and then shut the door.   
“I hope I’m not the only one who has a bad feeling about this,” Mycroft said from his place in the hallway.   
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Sherlock retreated to the drawing room to oversee Hermia’s arithmetic. “No, Mycroft, you are not.” Sherlock did not like Irene dragging Molly along, he did not like it one bit. She would most certainly get her into some mischief or danger. 

**Pawn Shop, Somewhere in Central London**  
“There’s the clerk, his name is Wilson Sowerby, tell him you were wondering if he had a pair of ruby and emerald cufflinks.”  
“What for?” Molly asked, flabbergasted. “Won’t that be suspicious?” Molly wanted to know what on earth Irene needed with a pair of cufflinks, for that matter.   
“Just tell him that you heard pawn shops might carry such a thing,” Irene shrugged, nudging her forward. “Or that your louse of a younger brother stole your father’s cufflinks and pawned them! Just make something up!”   
“Lie!”   
“Yes, whatever you have to!” Another shove from Irene and Molly was at the counter, hand hovering over the bell. She rang it just as the owner came out of the back room.   
“Oh! I’m sorry, I- there wasn’t anyone- here- um…hello.”   
“Hello ma’am, sorry to keep you waiting,”  
“Are you Mr. Sowerby?” Molly asked.  
“Yes,” the man nodded, studying her curiously.   
“Well, um, this is a rather awkward thing, you see…I have an elder brother, it seems he might have pawned our father’s cufflinks-“  
“Have you a slip?”   
Molly turned quite pale. “What?”  
“The slip? The slip your brother had. If he pawned ‘em, he’d have a slip.”   
“Oh…I-I don’t-“  
“Madame,” Irene approached the counter, standing at Molly’s elbow. “You gave it to me, for safe keeping, remember?” Irene kept her head lowered, holding out the yellow paper for Molly to take. Handing it over to Sowerby, Molly folded her hands to keep from shaking. Something was not right.   
“Number fifteen-oh-eight, eh? Just dropped off a day ago, it’s in the back somewhere, back in a mo’.” Slip in hand, he disappeared into the back room again.   
“Miss Adler, what is going on?” Molly asked in a frantic whisper.   
“Never you mind, just do as your told, when he brings the cufflinks out, give them to me for safe keeping.” Irene said. Molly heard the unmistakable ‘click’ of a gun being cocked. “I hope you don’t take it personally,” Irene continued, voice hushed. “I’d put a gun to anyone who was fronting for me, just to make sure I retain my property. But see that you hand it over, do you understand?”   
“Yes,” Molly trembled. “Yes I’ll hand them directly to you.” Sowerby returned, box and slip in hand.   
“Hmm, well, here’s the box, everything seems in place,” he placed it on the counter, removing the lid. “There you are, those your father’s?” he held onto the jewelry box, but opened it so Molly could see the cufflinks inside.   
“Yes, those are my father’s,” Molly nodded.   
“Right,” closing it once more, Molly reached for it, but he drew it back across the counter. “Ah, sign the release first, if you please,” he handed a pencil to her. “It’s a legal matter, miss.” For a moment, Molly froze. What name ought she use? She needed at least a surname, but a made-up brother?!   
Irene too, seemed at a loss. In her haste to retrieve what was missing, she had not thought to come up with a name. Slowly, Molly took the pencil, she might as well make up a pretend surname. Perhaps the man thought she was married, in which case placing ‘Mrs’ ahead of her given name might make it easier. As she slowly wrote out her name, Sowerby continued talking: “Funny thing, that, didn’t know as there were many ‘Holmes’ in London,”  
Molly looked up, almost alarmed.   
“He used the name ‘Holmes’?”   
“That’s right,” Sowerby nodded. “Didn’t look anything like the detective in the paper, come to that.”  
“What did he look like?” Molly pressed. She felt the barrel of the gun push against her back, but she couldn’t very well take back what she’d said.   
Sowerby thought a moment. “Sort of a waifish gentleman, a boy, more like, short, smooth face as if he couldn’t shave yet, but he had a ‘tache. Wore a bowler hat, but pulled low, his eyes were brighter, sort of blue I guess. I remember because the hat was pulled so low, but his eyes were bright. Like your maids’ eyes.” He gestured to Irene who again lowered her head quickly. Molly finished signing her name, only feeling marginally bad for writing ‘Mrs. Molly Holmes’.   
“He took my husband’s surname,” Molly said. “He probably didn’t want to get caught.”  
“I see why you’re angry, Missus,” Sowerby said. “He on the run from the police?”  
“Not as yet,” Molly said, gathering the box up in her arms. “But I shouldn’t’ doubt it. Thank you, Mr. Sowerby, for your help.” Tucking the box into the muff, Molly headed out of the shop, forcing Irene to follow at a close pace to keep from revealing the gun.   
“Miss Hooper, give me the box,” Molly whirled around, keeping her hands in the muff. Irene quickly let her arm drop, hiding the gun in the folds of her skirts.   
“Not until you tell me what I’ve just done. Who have you stolen from?”  
“I haven’t stolen from anyone!” Irene snapped. “I merely took what was mine, I needed to put it aside for safe keeping.”  
“Sowerby said this was only brought in a few days ago,” Molly realized. She stared at Irene. “You’ve been in London for days!”   
“Miss Hooper, give me the box, it isn’t safe with you.”  
“And it’s safe with you?” Molly took another step back.   
“I needed to put it away for a few days until I knew I’d be getting out of London,” Irene replied. “Now that I’m sure, I would like what is mine now, please.”  
“No,” Molly shook her head, keeping the box between her hands inside the muff. “No, I’m taking this back to Mr. Holmes, and I’ll see what he has to say.” She turned and ran, lifting her free arm to flag down a cab.   
“Molly!” Irene half-raised the gun, then stopped herself.   
By chance, as Molly hurried away from Irene, she saw Inspector Lestrade in a cab.   
“Inspector!”   
Lestrade leaned out of the cab. “Miss Hooper!” he directed the driver to pull to the side. “Out and about, so soon?”   
“I-“ Molly looked down the sidewalk, only to find that Irene was no longer there. She whirled around, scanning the crowds. “I- I think –“ she looked at the muff, she squeezed the box, feeling through the thin paste-board the two cufflinks scratch the insides. Still safe. “Please take me to Baker Street, please,”   
“Certainly,” Lestrade, seeing she was truly agitated, helped her up into the cab. “221b Baker Street, quick as you can!” he ordered and the driver slapped the reigns as soon as the doors were shut.   
“Inspector, you must tell me, has there been any thefts in London?” Molly asked. “I mean jewelry thefts.”   
Lestrade frowned at her, and Molly regretted her choice of words. Of course there had been jewelry thefts! This was London!   
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “What a stupid question, of course there are-“  
“No, it’s not that, it just so happens I’m working on a case about a jewelry theft, so is Mr. Holmes as a matter of fact, why?” he studied her suddenly. “What do you know?”  
“Were a pair of cufflinks among the things stolen?” Molly asked, feeling her stomach churn.   
“Yes!” Removing the box from her muff, she carefully opened it on her lap so the contents would not spill out, and that only Lestrade could see them. “Do they look like this?”   
“Good God! Where did you get those?!” Lestrade gasped. “They were made custom for Lord Gainsborough, he gave us a sketch from the jeweler so we could try and locate them!”   
“I found them at a pawn shop run by Wilson Sowerby,”  
“I know the place,” Lestrade nodded. “He’s one of the few cleaner pawn shops. If he’s been taken in…” He shook his head. “But how did you come across these?” Lestrade wanted to know. “Why would you ask for them? Where did you get the slip for them?”  
“Irene Adler had the slip for them,” Molly said, loathe to say so. “Mr. Sowerby could recall quite clearly what the chap looked like, who brought these in, I’m certain it was Miss Adler in disguise.”  
“Irene Adler!” Lestrade was alarmed. “What, she’s back in the country?”  
“She showed up last night, asking to hide out at Baker Street, Mr. Holmes allowed her for the night, and Lord Mycroft is arranging for her to go somewhere else. She said she needed a few things in town, and asked that I play the part of her mistress, so that she wouldn’t be seen. She said she was in trouble with people from Italy or…oh I don’t know maybe Rome.” Molly shook her head. “She had the slip in her purse, and told me what to tell him, she had a gun at my back or else I never would have agreed!”  
“You did the right thing, to be sure,” Lestrade nodded.   
“But Inspector, it means she’s lied to Mr. Holmes!” Molly cried. “She’s been in London for days, perhaps weeks!”  
“Indeed,” Lestrade nodded grimly. “Plenty of time for her to burgle Lord Gainsborough, pawn the items, and hide out at Baker Street. When was she planning on leaving?”  
“Lord Mycroft said he’d have the papers by late afternoon, and she would board the ten o’clock train tonight.”  
“So she needed to get the jewelry back for money on the road,” Lestrade realized. “Good God, do you realize you’ve just solved my case?!”   
The cab pulled to a stop outside of Baker Street, Lestrade handed over the money to the driver, then helped Molly down, taking her by the elbow.   
“Come on, not a moment to lose. We’ve got to tell Holmes Miss Adler is on the run! With her loose in London, there’s not a moment to lose!”


	13. The Desperate Act of The Woman

Lestrade helped Molly up the stairs to Baker Street, and while she did feel rattled at having a gun pulled on her, she didn’t quite see the necessity of his hand hovering at her back, as if she were to topple forwards or back as she fished her key from her purse. 

Upon entering the front door, Sherlock fairly pounced on them from the doorway of the parlor, “What have you been doing, keeping out above two hours it is nearly -“ he stopped then as he nearly reeled back, shocked that the wrist he had grabbed was Molly’s, not Miss Adler’s. “Molly!” he looked from her to Lestrade, a frown upon his face as he realized. “She’s given you the slip then?”   
“Rather the other way around,” Molly replied steadily, finding no humor in contradicting him. From her muff, she removed the box she had been clutching, opening it to reveal the cufflinks. One look and Sherlock had deduced what his former wife had been up to. With a groan, he rolled his eyes.   
“Mycroft,” he called.   
His brother appeared at the top of the stairs. “It is as we assumed?”   
“Afraid so.”  
“Well, that’s that,” Mycroft said with a shrug, descending the stairs at a leisurely pace. “I shan’t be able to offer my help to Miss Adler this time, nor should you, Brother-mine. With Lord Gainsborough ahead in the polls for Prime Minister, I cannot be seen offering help to the woman who burgled him.”  
“Oh, hang Gainsborough,” Sherlock snapped. “We have to find Miss Adler before she comes back and does harm to Molly!” The group turned with some surprise at the consulting detective. He faced them all, looking each one in the face as he spoke: “Miss Adler is not to be trifled with, she will not hesitate to take what she feels is hers, by any means necessary.”   
“You think she’ll come back here, even with the danger of coming into a trap?” Molly asked. “She knows I have the cufflinks, and she knows that Detective Lestrade is here as well. It would be no trouble for him to call the police and catch her arriving, by window or cellar, whichever way she chooses to slip in.”  
“No, she knows Baker Street is no longer safe for her, especially with Mycroft here,” Sherlock replied with a nod. “She’ll try something else, something we won’t expect, and from a distance.” They all paused then, trying to put themselves in Irene’s shoes.   
“Molly,” Sherlock suddenly spoke again. “If you were Miss Adler, and something you were depending upon was taken from you, how would you get it back?”  
“I should probably steal something my opponent held of equal value, perhaps as a ransom,” Molly replied.   
“But what would Sherlock keep that’s worth a pair of gaudy cufflinks?” Lestrade asked. The group turned to him and he looked right back. “What?” he asked with a shrug. “They are. Just because he’s going to be prime minister doesn’t mean he’s got any sort of taste.”   
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Mycroft sniffed. 

Molly removed her hat, tossing it aside. “This is getting us nowhere, Mr. Holmes, what in the house would you price as equal to a pair of ruby and emerald cufflinks? Miss Adler must know the contents of the house; what family heirlooms are in your possession?”  
“No, nothing at all, nothing except perhaps lab equipment, but she can hardly move that without any fuss. I don’t keep antiquities or jewelry from the collection. There is nothing here she’d steal that she could move easily…” he thought carefully. “Nothing really that I care about, except-“ suddenly he and Molly alighted upon the same thought, for at once they faced each other, horror crossing their features and they spoke at once:  
“Hermia!” Molly fairly shoved him out of the way, bolting up the stairs, Sherlock close on her heels. Lestrade and Mycroft both followed them up, the detective bellowing for someone to fetch the chief of police. 

They burst into the nursery, expecting to find an empty bed. To their shared horror, they did.   
Only the door of the lavatory opening on the far side made them turn with a start, expecting the worst, only to sigh with relief (Molly fairly collapsing in a heap, save for Sherlock boosting her up) Miss Hudson and Hermia, the former scolding the child.   
“And let that teach you not to try writing with an inkpot anywhere except at a desk!”   
“Hermia!” Molly reached for her, grasping her hands. “Oh thank goodness, thank goodness!”   
Hermia, confused, accepted the embrace. “What’s happened?” she asked when Molly released her. She looked to her father. “Where is Miss Adler?”   
“Gone,” Sherlock said, barely managing to contain his relief.   
Mycroft stood in the doorway. “May I suggest armed guards be posted at every entryway?” Mycroft asked. “Sherlock, while it was a good guess that Irene may come after Hermia, don’t you think the fact that Hermia being at Baker Street, the very place it is most unsafe for her is rather a telling sign she wouldn’t try it?”  
“She would risk a good deal,” Sherlock replied. “And we are not far off, she would take one of the children and hold them for ransom.”   
“Even risk taking a train?” Molly asked, her voice hollow. She turned to Mycroft. “Lord Mycroft, who is with your wife and Eugenia in Sussex?”   
“Why, no one of course, it is not the season so the house will be quite empty…” he trailed off, and this time he and Sherlock understood at once. Both turned and raced for the stairs. Mycroft cursed his brother aloud for not having a wireless machine in the house. He bolted out the front door to flag down a boy to send a message to Sussex. Molly followed after Sherlock, holding fistfuls of her skirts as she ran.   
“Inspector Lestrade,” he found the detective in the front hall, returning from sending a message. “Stay with Hermia, do not let her out of your sight, do you understand? Handcuff her to your person if you must,” Sherlock, settling his coat on his shoulders, grabbed his hat from the hook, continuing as Molly found her own bonnet. “Find the Irregulars, put them at every window, every door in the house, keep her safe, _do not leave my daughter alone,_ ”   
“Upon my honor,” Lestrade swore. “I have the chief coming straight away, oughtn’t I send some men with you?”  
“Send them along, but they will have to hurry,” Sherlock replied, irritable. He did not want to wait for police.   
Hermia, who had followed them down the stairs, took the Inspector by the hand, wide-eyed and looking quite frightened. “Is Eugenia not safe?” She looked at Molly, who slowed in tying her cape again. Molly glanced at both the Holmes, looking lastly to Sherlock before turning to the child. “No, darling, she is not. But she will be soon, I promise.”   
“Will you bring her home? Back to London?” Hermia asked.   
“Yes,” Sherlock nodded solemnly. “We will.” He turned to Molly then. “We haven’t another moment to lose,” he said. He meant that she had no time for any tears, which threatened to fall at any moment.   
Molly nodded, kissed Hermia’s forehead. “Goodbye, darling, we’ll be back before you know it. Be good. Eat your supper,”  
“Miss Hooper!” Sherlock bellowed from the stoop, and Molly hurried out the door.   
Hermia tugged Lestrade with her, still clutching his hand as she went to the door, locking and bolting it. Mrs. Hudson was on the stairs, bewildered, clutching a corner of her apron for want of something to hold onto. Mrs. Dickerson was in the doorway of the kitchen, having heard the commotion. Lestrade looked from the older women to the child hanging onto his hand.   
“Is there any tea?” he asked finally.   
Mrs. Dickerson nodded, glad for something to do. “Yes, I’ll put the kettle on, and cut sandwiches,”  
“Don’t fuss,” Lestrade called after her.   
“Oh I must,” the cook sighed. “If I don’t do something I’ll go after that woman myself, and if I do find her, what I say or do to her won’t be Christian.” She looked heavenward a moment before descending the stairs to the kitchen once more. Mrs. Hudson followed, seeing the Baker Street Irregulars begin to arrive by the back door. 

**Victoria Station**  
“The train will have gone by now,” Sherlock said over the din of the crowds. Molly’s hand was tucked into his arm to keep up with him, and so they would not be separated in the crush. Upon arriving, he had immediately purchased two tickets for them to follow Irene. “She’ll also know that by now we know what her plan is. I daresay she won’t make a move until we do.”  
“Do you think she would do a harm to Eugenia?” Molly asked fearfully.   
Sherlock did not answer her, his mouth set in a grim line. He handed over their tickets to the porter.   
“The lady is not permitted in this section of the train, she will find a ladies entry beyond the smoking car down the way -“  
“Sod off,” Sherlock barked, taking Molly by the hand, and pushing up the steps, tugged her through the car to their private compartment.   
They sat facing each other, Molly clutching the cufflinks in her muff, worrying her bottom lip.   
“You’ll make yourself raw doing that,” Sherlock said absentmindedly.   
“How long until departure?”  
“Not long, I am sure Mycroft has sent a message to the station as well that time is of the utmost importance.” As if on cue, the porters suddenly blew their whistles, and the open doors of the carriages were pushed shut. The crowds looked about, confused, many gentlemen looked at their watches and then the clock on the wall as well. Some began to complain that departure was not for thirty minutes yet. But the train was already rolling out of the station, picking up speed. “At last,” Sherlock sighed, relief evident in his voice.   
The train passed swiftly through London, heading straight out into the open country. Molly was restless. She vacillated between tapping her feet nervously to holding unnaturally still, staring out the window.   
“Do talk, Molly,” Sherlock urged her gently. “This silence is worse than idle chit-chat.”   
“I’m afraid to speak,” Molly said honestly. “I think if I start I shan’t be able to stop myself.”  
“Speak anyway,” Sherlock said, shutting his eyes. The noise of the train’s rattling wheels, the gentle sway of the cars was not as restful to him as it usually was.   
“She would hurt Eugenia, wouldn’t she?” Molly said at last.   
He opened his eyes then, finding Molly was looking back at him. “She would,” he confirmed with a nod. “If she thought it would do any good, which it wouldn’t. That I can assure you on.”   
Molly bowed her head for a moment, then looked back out the window. “I should have just given her the box,” she murmured quietly. “I had to try and play police.”   
“You did nothing wrong,” Sherlock scolded her.   
“But look what it’s led to,” she protested, finally feeling her resolve break, and she began to cry, feeling somewhat hysterical. “If Eugenia is hurt, it will be my fault, I can’t live with that, I couldn’t, I’d rather die than see her hurt, any of the children hurt-“ she shook her head, frustrated. “Either of the children,” she corrected herself.   
Sherlock swallowed thickly, he pushed himself forward to the edge of his seat. Reaching forward, he tugged her hands from the muff, setting it aside. He covered her hands in his, squeezing gently.   
She went on crying, trying to calm herself, sniffling. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, I’m all tears, and the children aren’t even mine, and I’m behaving as if they were,” she began to weep, “They aren’t mine…they aren’t mine…they aren’t mine,” she repeated, low, as if trying to convince herself. 

_Yes they are._

She looked up with a start, eyes red-rimmed and swollen.   
“What?” there was surprise in her voice, surprise and something raw, disbelieving that he had said such a thing.   
Sherlock grew distressed, heart aching as she seemed bent on convincing herself she had no right to cry, or even that the children did not belong to her. Perhaps they didn’t. Legally they were not hers. But there was no doubt that she loved them, loved them as a mother should. He also realized that he had not kept his thoughts to himself, and had blurted out ‘Yes you are’ as she wept. Now she was looking at him for an explanation.   
“You love them as a mother,” he said finally.   
“Well, yes, I-I do, but I’m not,” she looked at their hands, still linked, and she made to remove herself, but he held fast. “It’s impertinent for me-“  
He released her hand suddenly, placing his palm against her cheek, thumbing away her tears.   
“No it isn’t,” he contradicted. “And I am pleased they have such a woman in their lives, to love them as they should be. As they deserve to be. Do not ever doubt your right to love them, Molly.”   
She looked at him, doe-eyed, lips parted, “Why do you do that?”   
“What?” he asked quietly, his hand had slid down to cup the back of her neck, thumb gently tracing circles on her jaw. Eyes locked, Sherlock was quite certain they had moved closer. When had that happened?  
“Why do you call me ‘Molly’?” she asked, voice softer.   
“That’s your name, isn’t it?”  
“Yes,” she nodded, “But-“  
“And you seem to enjoy my saying it,” he interrupted.   
“Do I?”   
He nodded. “Your pupils dilate, and you flush a rather attractive shade of pink.”   
“I do not.” She was amazed she could speak at this moment. Mere inches away, this time, there was no doubt that he had leaned forward. Perhaps she had too. Sherlock tenderly kissed her soft cheeks, the corners of her mouth and her jaw where his thumb had idly traced patterns only moments ago. When they parted, Molly couldn’t help but wipe her eyes once more, sighing.  
“Don’t cry anymore, Molly,” he soothed. “We will find Eugenia; I promise we will.”   
“I know we will,” she said, her voice steadier now. “I have every faith in you,”   
“Then why…” he wanted to know. He knew there was a reason for her tears, and he wished to remedy it. She smiled at her lap, then looked up at him, her smile was fond.   
“Silly man, I’ve been waiting for so long for you to kiss me,”   
“I haven’t yet,” he said, sitting upright, looking indignant, then suddenly smug. “Well, properly, any way. Believe me, Miss Hooper, when I kiss you, you shall know it.” Taking the cufflinks and muff from the seat, he placed them at his side, then tugged her over to sit beside him, settling his arm about her shoulders, encouraging her to lean against him. “Now, before we do things that make you blush and my brother have a coronary from London, we should discuss the grounds of my brother’s estate, Irene will be able to scout out the place fairly quickly, and we should have an idea of where she might go.”  
“She has the advantage of arriving well before us, plenty of time to get the upper-hand,” Molly said.   
“That is so,” Sherlock agreed. “But she lacks on distinct advantage: I know my brother’s house better than anyone. It was my parents’ home when we were children, and I know it better than I know London.” 

**Sussex, Holmes Estate**  
“Miss Adler, this is a surprise,” Anthea was more than that, seeing her brother in-law’s former wife standing in her foyer. Dressed as a member of staff at that. Indeed, Anthea recognized the dress she had made up for Miss Hooper after Hortense had passed away.   
“Your husband thought it safer for me to take the night train from Sussex,” Irene explained pleasantly. “It’s much quieter here, and unlikely for me to be noticed.”  
“I did wonder why you were dressed as a maid,” Anthea said. “Well, if Lord Mycroft has sent you, I expect he has his reasons, even if he decided not to share them.”  
“You know how men are,” Irene replied breezily. “They love their secrets.”  
“Do they?” Anthea asked. “Well, you’re here now. You may as well come through. I’ll send for tea. I am sure you are famished.”   
“Oh you needn’t bother,” Irene said.   
“Just the same,” Anthea led her through to the drawing room.   
The butler lingered in the doorway, so she excused herself as Irene sat down near the fire to warm herself.   
“Pardon me, ma’am,” Jameson said, holding out a telegram. “This has just arrived.”   
“Thank you,” Anthea took it, cutting the end of it open with the opener before replacing it on the tray. “See if Mrs. Brandon will send up a pot of tea,” she glanced at the open door of the drawing room. “And I suppose if it isn’t much bother, to cut a sandwich for our guest.” She again looked to the drawing room, and stepped closer to Jameson, who inclined his head. “See that Miss Eugenia is kept upstairs, and well away until Miss Adler is out of the house, do you understand, Jameson? Our guest must not know Eugenia’s whereabouts of the house.”   
“Yes my lady,” Jameson nodded solemnly. “Shall I inform the rest of the staff?” he asked. “They are having their tea now; it will be easier to inform them all at once.”  
“As you please,” Anthea nodded.   
Knowing he was dismissed, he bowed and slipped back downstairs.   
Anthea slipped the telegram from the envelope, glancing upstairs at the sound of a door shutting. Most likely one of the servants late to tea. 

_I.A. HAS VACATED 221b BE ON LOOKOUT SHE IS DANGER TO E.  
M._

Quietly, Anthea folded the telegram, hands trembling. Had she truly just let a con-woman into her house? Again? Anthea truly did curse English hospitality at times. Well there was nothing for it now but to keep her distracted and well away from Eugenia.   
Hurrying back to the drawing room, Anthea smiled politely. “Jameson will return with a tray in just a moment- oh hell.” The drawing room was silent, for Irene Adler was not there. Indeed, the woman had snuck quietly out, leaving the door open behind her. Anthea’s concern grew, when she realized that Irene had given her the slip.   
“Miss Adler?” Anthea called, finding she was anxious. She must find her, and quickly, before she found Eugenia- 

_Thump_  
Something struck the back of her head, and all the world slid sideways before going dark. 

Irene caught Anthea under the arms, dragging her behind the open door. Propping her by the wall, she quickly slipped the gun back into her pocket, turning to study the room once more before departing, sure that her actions had gone unseen. Once certain that Anthea was still breathing and out of sight, Irene slipped from the drawing room, shutting the door quietly behind her. She turned suddenly at the sound of running feet. The sound of small feet, to be precise. Lifting her eyes, she could see at the top of the stairs, running down the stairs was a little girl.   
“Aunt Anthea!” the girl called, clearly eager to tell her something.   
“I’m afraid your aunt stepped out,” Irene called, stepping further into sight, away from the drawing room.   
Eugenia stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Irene almost smiled inwardly, for she could fairly see the wheels in the child’s head turning.   
“Mother!” Eugenia gasped. “What are you doing here? How-“   
“Never mind the how, I’ve come for a visit. Your sister is still unwell in London, and your father didn’t like to risk my getting ill.” Irene smiled pleasantly, bending low to her eye level. “But he gave me your address, and I thought I must see my little girl who is cooped up all alone here in this big house!”   
“I’m not all alone,” Eugenia said. “I have Aunt Anthea, and Thomas the footman gives me rides on his back, and a lovely garden all for myself!”   
“Your garden!” Irene smiled. “Will you show it to me?” The door to the servant’s hall opened, and she turned with a start. She grasped Eugenia tightly by the arm, hurrying her out of the foyer.  
“Oh I need a coat first, it’s cold outside!”  
“Nonsense, a good brisk walk, we’ll only be a moment,” Irene said hurriedly, glancing behind her as she ushered Eugenia out the door. 

Just as the front door closed, the butler appeared bearing a tray. He was surprised to see the door of the drawing room closed. Crossing the hall, frowning at the front door that had slammed shut behind someone in a hurry (he’d have to have a word with the hall boys about shutting it quietly). Balancing the tray on one arm, he knocked lightly.   
“My lady, tea,” he waited for an answer, and when he received none, knocked again. Again met with silence, Jameson tried the handle, pushing the door open. Something was against the door, and he had to push hard to fit through.   
The tray clattered to the ground, for at his feet lay his mistress, an angry welt on her temple where she had been struck.   
“My God!” He bent, nearly falling backwards with relief when Lady Anthea drew a light breath, unconscious, but thank heavens still alive. For a moment he did not know what to do, until the front bell rang, followed by Lord Mycroft’s brother bellowing to be let in. 

Eugenia tried to keep up with her mother’s long strides.   
“Please let’s go back,” Eugenia pleaded, cold and disturbed by her mother’s frantic behavior.   
“Nonsense, you must show me your garden dear, it must be this way,”  
“No, no, I want to go in, where is Aunt Anthea?” Eugenia cried, dragging her feet. She did not know what possessed her, but she suddenly had a dreadful feeling in the pit of her stomach that something was terribly wrong. She twisted this way and that, trying to get out of her mother’s grasp. As she did so, she caught sight of a carriage pulling up to the front of the house. “Look! Look!” Eugenia pulled with all her might, dragging her feet across the gravel.   
Irene did look, and was horrified to see Sherlock and Molly step down, hurrying to the front door. Hauling Eugenia up against her hip, she clamped a hand over the child’s mouth.   
“Be quiet!” Irene ordered. She shouldn’t have been so surprised when she felt teeth sink into the fleshy part of her hand. With a yelp, she let go of Eugenia, surprised to see the girl had drawn blood!   
Eugenia took off for the garden, sprinting towards the maze.   
Safe! She would be safe in her garden! To the thickly grown hedges she fairly flew, then flung herself belly-first, scrabbling through a low, worn-through hole in the shrubs her uncle’s dogs had long been using.   
Irene hitched up her skirts, nearly falling flat as well as she made to grab the child, who had slipped under the hedges just out of her grasping hands. Cursing, she got to her feet again, running along the tall hedges for the entrance. She had only been to the Holmes estate once in her life, and while she knew the garden contained a section that was not open, she was certain Eugenia was headed there, and she must get to the child before Sherlock found them out. 

In the drawing room, the butler had set Lady Anthea on the couch, having let in Sherlock and Molly.   
“What do you mean, you left them alone?!” the consulting detective was furious.   
Molly glanced between him and the butler, who was decidedly shame-faced, clearly blaming himself. “Mr. Holmes,” she said quietly, chastising him. “He could not have known. What is important is that we find Eugenia before Miss Adler does,”   
Sherlock nodded. “I will fetch her, you said she is upstairs?”   
The butler nodded, so Sherlock hurried from the room, coat flapping behind him as he thumped up the stairs, taking them two at a time.  
“Now, Jameson,” she got to her feet.   
The butler looked at her with some surprise, that a governess was about to give him orders, indeed one that was not even in his master’s employ!   
“Go and fetch Lady Anthea’s maid,” Molly said. “Have her prepare a cool cloth for her mistress. I daresay she will be perfectly well when she comes too, save for her head.”  
Jameson nodded wordlessly, going to the bell on the wall. “I shall send for her,” he replied after he rang. “I should not like to leave my lady while she is yet unconscious.”   
“She’s not upstairs!” Sherlock came barreling down the stairs, frantic. “She is not anywhere upstairs, are you certain that is where she was last?”  
“Upon my word, sir,” Jameson promised, most distressed now. “Upon my word, she has not stirred since after tea, perhaps she came down-“  
“Of course she did!” Sherlock snapped. He hurried from the room, out to the foyer, looking for anything to stand out. He looked to the ground, perhaps Eugenia had dropped a toy, or a glove. He scanned the carpet and suddenly Molly’s hand was on his arm, her other hand pointing to the pattern on the front carpet.   
“There are scuff marks on the rug,” she said, just as he realized the same.   
“She already has her,” Sherlock breathed, and both made for the front door.   
There in the gravel were marks cutting through, disturbing the otherwise smooth drive.   
“The garden!” Molly cried. 

Sherlock ran, bending low as he studied the marks. “She got away,” he called over his shoulder, he looked ahead, scanning for the worn hole the family dogs had always used in the hedge. “Through there, she’s headed for mother’s garden,” Heart pounding, he found it difficult to breathe. His mind raced, trying to push back the emotions that coursed through him. If Irene found Eugenia before they did, if she was desperate enough, if Eugenia did not have the key to the secret garden on her person…the thought was too awful to finish. Molly nearly ran into him for he had stopped short at the entrance of the maze. Dusk was falling, they had no torches and Irene already had a head start. Molly squeezed his arm.   
“Mr. Holmes,” she said, out of breath, still looking at the dark maze.   
“I have lost Hortense because I had no power to save her, by Heaven, I will save Eugenia,” Sherlock said, low and dangerous. He shook Molly off him, breaking into a run. He knew the maze well, and he did not doubt the path.   
“It will be dark soon, we’ll never find the entrance!” Molly cried, running after him. She caught sight of the corner of his coat as he slipped around the corner.   
“Keep up, Molly,” Sherlock rounded another corner. Molly barely had time to catch up with him before he made another sharp turn. This time, she grabbed the end of his coat in one hand, her other hauling her skirts up so she could keep pace.   
Realizing she was lagging behind, he reached grasping her hand, tugging her along with him. Her hand squeezed his, and though he did not turn his head to look at her, he could feel her determination strengthen. 

They would find Eugenia.


	14. Irene, At Last

Eugena had slipped away from her mother, following the familiar path to the inner garden. She ran, tripping over her own feet up to the hidden door. Panicked states make for clumsy hands, and almost twice she dropped the key as she fished it from her pocket. She pushed aside the vines blocking the door, about to put the key in the lock when she heard her mother calling. Footsteps around the corner made her swing the curtain of ivy behind her, and she whirled around to face the path, keeping still. Through the tangle of vines, she saw her mother pause, frowning. The ivy still swayed gently, and Eugenia held her breath, praying she would remain unseen. She nearly gasped aloud when her mother turned to face the ivy, studying the tangled vines. She was sure she could be seen. She stared up into her mother's eyes through the vines, studying her. Her mother's eyes had no warmth in them, nothing at all like Miss Molly's. Molly was all warmth and kindness, her eyes were soft and kind. Eugenia suddenly ached for her governess, for her father and sister, for London, even, but home was so terribly far now, and the place she had depended upon as a safe haven was suddenly trapping her in. Suddenly, her mother's hand thrust out, yanking her forcefully through the vines, stems and leaves scratching her face.

Blinking in the dusky twilight, Eugenia cleared her vision, struggling until she heard a metallic click. When she looked up, however, her mother wasn't looking back, she was staring straight down the path.  
"Not another step, Sherlock, nor you, Miss Hooper,"  
Eugenia let out a cry, struggling for only a moment out of pure instinct when she saw her father and Miss Hooper come to a halt not seven steps from her.  
Sherlock held up his hands, speaking to Eugenia. "Don't struggle," he said, almost pleading. "Stay still,"  
"Are you hurt?" Molly asked.  
"She's perfectly fine, I wouldn't hurt her," Irene answered.  
"The pistol you have trained on her is rather the opposite of what you're saying," Sherlock retorted. Eugenia had not seen her father on any sort of case, she wasn't sure if she liked seeing him so furiously cool and calm.  
"I do need you to know I'm serious, and it was all I had on hand," Irene shrugged.  
"For God's sake, Irene, she is our daughter!" Sherlock fairly exploded.  
Molly touched his arm, and he stilled again. Shouting would do no good, and it would only frighten Eugenia.  
"I have the cuff links," Molly said, tossing the muff aside, she held up the box. Opening it, she tilted it so that Irene could see, and shook it so the contents rattled against the pasteboard.  
"Close the box and toss them over, then take eight steps back," Irene ordered, waving the pistol at them, then directing it back on Eugenia.  
Molly glanced at Sherlock, who nodded for her to do so. It landed, upending in the path. Counting, Sherlock walked backwards eight paces, keeping his hand on Molly's lower back to guide her so she would not trip.  
"Now, darling," Irene bent low so her mouth was near Eugenia's ear. "Be a good girl," she walked forward, so Eugenia was forced to move with her, head tilted at a painful angle due to the barrel of the gun pressed to her temple. "Pick it up,"  
Eugenia bent, trembling all over as she grasped the pasteboard box and held it up for her mother.  
"Put it in my pocket, it's in the folds of my skirt, and then stay right by me."  
Again, Eugenia obeyed, glancing at her father and Molly.  
"Now you've got what you wanted," Sherlock said, breaking the silence. "Give us Eugenia,"  
Irene gave an overly-dramatic, pondering expression. "I could, I suppose, it is only fair, but you know," her arm snaked around the child, drawing her close again. "She's my daughter too, you know, and we've only two left now, Sherlock, dear. You've already got Hermia. I think Eugenia ought to come with me-"  
"No!" Molly burst, taking an involuntary step forward. Suddenly the gun was directed at her, and Irene looked monstrous.  
"Who are you to tell me what to do?" Just as quickly as her anger appeared, it dissipated, and Irene smiled eerily at them. "Besides, I shall need someone for protection while I travel."  
"You mean someone to gamble with," Sherlock replied tightly. "I had thought you above that, Irene."  
"Nonsense, if someone is useful, I use them," she caressed Eugenia's cheek who shied between her mother's hand while trying to still arch her head away from the gun. "She is my daughter after all," she began to back away, gun still trained on the child. "I'll be in touch, never fear," she smiled cheekily, triumphant. "Now,"  
Eugenia struggled, whimpering as she stared after her father and Molly who could do nothing. Through her blurry eyes, she watched as Molly lurched forward, shouting:  
"I'll not let you take her!"  
"Molly, no!" Sherlock roared, reaching for her, seconds too late.

A breeze stirred the tall hedges around them, and Eugenia saw starlings that had been nesting in the bushes suddenly startle, taking to the dusky skies. Above her head, just to the right of her ear she heard an explosion that nearly deafened her. Eugenia watched her father reached for Miss Hooper, eyes widened in shock and horror. She didn't know what happened, it had all gone by so quickly: the great noise by her head and suddenly Miss Hooper's knees buckled. Her skirts billowed around her as she fell to the ground, gloved hand clutching the space beneath her breast. Eugenia realized that she had been shot, that her mother had done it. She was numb, watching her father cradle Miss Hooper. She could see no more, for her mother was dragging her away and she was too overcome to struggle.  
"Blast Watson for not being here!" Sherlock groused, finding his eyes were wet. He clamped his hand over the wound, so much blood. Too much. "Molly, look at me, look at me,"  
"I am," she answered, her voice strained. "Um, don't move me, please," she gasped as he shifted her so that she was flat on her back.  
"Straight through you," he murmured, feeling the back of her dress was slowly soaking through. "Don't move, I shan't move you, dear,"  
"Never mind me," Molly grunted. She reached up with her blood-stained hand, tugging at his tie, wanting the extra fabric to stay the bleeding. Immediately he undid it, pressing it to her wound.   
"Lie here, don't move, promise me you won't move," he begged, voice trembling.  
"Of course I won't. There," Molly said, blinking hard, trying to keep her breathing steady. "That should keep me, go and get Eugenia, there is still time,"  
Sherlock was torn. Molly needed help, she needed a doctor, but every second he knelt here at her side Irene was getting away, and Eugenia would still be in danger. But if Molly should die while he went after them…the thought was too terrible, and Sherlock bent, pressing a desperate kiss to her mouth, to which Molly put up no fuss, accepting it, happily, despite the grim circumstances surrounding them.  
"You're letting them get away," Molly pushed weakly against him at last.  
"I will bring her back," Sherlock promised, meeting her gaze. "We'll see you shortly, we'll all be back in London soon."  
"Yes," Molly smiled, quite pale, doing her level best to look as if she were perfectly well. She did not sound certain of it, and Sherlock tried very hard not to hear the disbelief in her tone. Kissing her swiftly once more, he got to his feet, sprinting down the path in the direction that Irene and Eugenia had gone.

Sherlock ran as if the devil were after him, pausing at the corners of the maze only to listen. In the distance he could hear Irene fairly dragging Eugenia, who had not uttered a single word since Molly had been shot. He concluded that she was most likely in shock, and it would mean he would have to take a different tactic in confronting Irene. More violence would only exacerbate the situation and if his daughter was not already traumatized by seeing a beloved friend shot before her very eyes, her father tackling her birth-mother head on and bashing in her bloody face would most certainly do the trick. He had no interest in further frightening Eugenia, so as he tracked them through the maze, he formulated a plan.

Irene held onto Eugenia who had just about gone limp in her arms.  
"You may as well get used to the way I am," Irene said matter-of-factly. "I am not usually in a hurry, but you must see that time is of the essence," Irene ordered, briefly looking down at the child, hoisting her upright and then looking back to the path. "Bloody Hell-" she rounded a corner to find a dead-end. Whirling around, she dragged Eugenia behind her, who dutifully plodded along now. "Now, see here, I am sorry I had to shoot your nanny, but it came down to myself or them, and I'm sure she'll be fine, anyway what sort of life has she had? Not a good one, I'd wager, if she's in service. She's not going to be anything in life, so she may as well be something in the afterlife. Well, if you believe in that sort of thing. Afraid I don't, I think it's just something people say."  
Irene disliked quiet, and she disliked violence. She could admit when she was rattled, shooting a person usually did that to her. She'd never kidnapped someone either, so she prattled on under her breath, barely loud enough so Eugenia could hear. She did not expect the child to respond. "Now," again, they rounded a corner, reaching another wall of the hedge. Irene rolled her eyes, groaning. She looked down at the listless child, suddenly realizing her terrible predicament. "Always jumping the gun," Irene scolded herself under her breath. If she was to get away, she would need the child's help. "Look, you," she gripped Eugenia's shoulders, forcing her to look up. "Listen to me, won't you, you know this place, you know how to get out, don't you?"  
Numbly, Eugenia nodded. She did know the way out. She knew where all the hidden entrances were and where all the shortcuts were.  
"Good girl," Irene smiled, relieved. "Now, if you show me the way out, we'll be able to go on a lovely holiday, the pair of us, wouldn't you like that? We'll sail across the ocean on a beautiful ocean liner, on a steam ship called the Umbria, in first class, what do you say to that?" Irene's eyes sparkled in the darkness, her grip on Eugenia's shoulders tightening. "I'd wager a thousand quid you've never gone sailing-" Eugenia shook her head, wide-eyed, looking absolutely petrified. "Well you will tomorrow, that's when our boat leaves, but we've got to be on it, you see? Shouldn't you like to see the ocean, and America? Marvelous things are happening there, steel and oil, and miles and miles of tracks for trains, and they say people are finding gold all over the country! We'll go to New Orleans, it's a lovely place, so much of it is like Paris, so I'm told. There's a house waiting, a beautiful white house with pillars on the great front porch, and people do nothing but sit and drink lemonade for it is so hot there. Lemonade and ice cream! But we won't be able to see all those lovely things if we can't get out of the maze, now, will you be a good girl and show me the way?" Irene could promise anything to this child. Anyway everything she'd said thus-far was true. There was a house in New Orleans waiting for her. And perhaps people did sit around and drink lemonade. True, Irene had no intention of staying very long there, but until she reached the states, she would need collateral, naturally Eugenia would fit the bill nicely. If it meant spoiling her a little, well, there was no harm in that.  
It suddenly struck Eugenia that the best way to help her father would be to buy him time. He would have a plan, and he would have already set it in motion, if not then very soon. She must give him time to have the help he needed. So Eugenia did what she thought best: play along. "We'll go sailing," Eugenia clarified, her voice eerily calm. She watched her mother nod. "And we're going to sail to America."  
"Yes, yes," Irene answered, impatient, then quickly schooled her emotions. "There's a beautiful house on a hill that is waiting for us, it's on a plantation, aces and acres of cotton. There is a room with French doors overlooking the fields, it's all done over in apple green silk and lovely satin sheets! That will be your room, and there is a horse for you in the stables, a beautiful white horse all the way from Arabia. I know you must ride now."  
"Will there be a garden?" Eugenia asked.  
Irene nodded immediately, as Eugenia expected her to. "Oh yes, darling, of course there will be! Roses by the hundreds."  
Silently, without breaking eye-contact, her expression blank, Eugenia stepped around her mother, then turned to study the path. Walking some distance, she paused at the entrance to another long hedgerow.  
"That way?" Irene asked, glancing behind her. She could hear running feet, and whirled around, pistol raised, but the noise was not from their path. In the distance she could hear shouting, probably the staff had found Miss Hooper by now. "Eugenia," Irene nudged the child again. "Is it that way?"  
Eugenia nodded, so Irene grabbed her by the hand, gesturing for her to lead the way.  
"Hurry, dear, we mustn't miss our train,"  
"No, we mustn't." Eugenia agreed, voice hollow. Slowly, as she led her down winding paths and dark passages, Irene's grip loosened, until their arms were somewhat outstretched, though still linked. Irene was tired, she was exhausted from being on the run and of the days' events. Her first night in a bed had been at 221b Baker Street, and even then her sleep was not very restful. She wished keenly for the little girl to hurry up. Sherlock could not have been far behind, and with Sherlock on her trail, every second counted.

On the path, Molly lay still as she could, drifting in and out of consciousness. She felt her hand being pried away from the wound, soft, far away voices cursing at the amount of blood. Molly grunted in pain, feeling herself being prodded.  
"I've been shot," she called out weakly.  
"I know you have,"  
At the sound of the familiar voice, she opened her eyes. "Doctor Watson!" She could have cried for joy, had the pain under her breast not been so immense. "How?" she asked, voice faint again.  
"Never mind that now, stay still while we get you on a stretcher."  
"When…how?" Molly wanted to know, fighting desperately to stay conscious. She wanted to see the good doctor's face, to reassure herself that this was not a mirage her mind had conjured up. "Where's Mary?"  
"Here, dearest," there was Mrs. Watson as well, in her good day dress, replacing Sherlock's stained tie with a fresh, clean flannel. She smiled down at Molly. "You didn't think I'd let him run after you two and let him have all the fun? Don't worry, Hermia is safe with Inspector Lestrade."  
"Thank God," she breathed. Her smile was cut short as she felt herself placed on a stretcher, and suddenly she was lifted. Gasping in pain, she held out a hand as if to steady herself, to tell them to bloody well keep steady on, she was bleeding for pities sake!  
Mary grasped her outstretched hand, soothing her. "There, there, it's alright now, you're going to be perfectly fine. My John will have you patched up."  
"I'm cold, Mary, I'm so cold," Molly whimpered.  
"We'll sort that," John promised, meeting his wife's gaze across the stretcher.  
"Sherlock doesn't know, I never told him," Molly went on, bleary and drifting in and out of consciousness. "He's alone out there… Mary-"  
"Someone ought to help him," Mycroft said from the doorway, standing aside as the men brought Molly to the ambulance. "Not you, Doctor Watson," he held out his hand to stay the good doctor. "You'll be needed at the hospital." Both men turned instead to Mary, who was standing aside as the men loaded the stretcher into the open back of the ambulance.  
"Me?"  
"Yes, you, you have been extremely helpful in the past, Mrs. Watson. I trust helping my brother track down his errant former wife should not prove difficult for you?"  
"Mary," John jumped down from the back of the van, approaching her. "Are you certain?"  
"Of course I am," she answered firmly. "I'll be careful, we both will. Now you do what you do best, and help Molly. And give me your gun."  
John obeyed, unbuttoning his coat to retrieve the Webley from his breast pocket.  
"I don't know if there is anything that can be done for Molly," he answered her quietly. Mary looked up sharply at him. "I can try my level best-"  
"No," Mary interrupted him, looking at him steadily. "You cannot simply try, John, you have got to save her. Sherlock cannot manage this loss."  
John studied his wife carefully. There were times he praised her astuteness. She was brilliant beyond measure, and this was one of those moments that he suddenly remembered this fact. Mary knew people, she knew how to study people. She knew Molly very well, and was one of the rare human beings to be able to read Sherlock Holmes, know what made him tick, and get him to do what was best for him, especially if he didn't like to do so. John also realized that Mary must have seen an attachment between Sherlock and Molly.  
"Good God!" John gasped.  
"I know, it is a shock, but never mind that," Mary insisted. She pressed embraced him lovingly, releasing him after a long moment. "Be careful," she breathed, squeezing his arms gently.  
"I shall, and you as well," he held her close just once more. "I love you."  
"And I you," she murmured, smiling warmly.  
"Godspeed!" he gave her a nudge, turning to jump into the ambulance, banging on the roof of it while Mary took the torch from Mycroft and headed for the garden.

Deep in the maze, Irene was growing agitated. They had been walking for what seemed like ages, and the quieter it became, the more restless she grew.  
"Are you certain this is the way out?"  
"We can't get out yet," Eugenia informed her calmly. "Don't you think police will be at the entrances and exits? Uncle Mycroft will be back by now."  
"Yes, obviously," Irene answered, annoyed. "What do you propose we do until then?"  
"Not get shot," Eugenia replied without any hesitation.  
Irene grabbed her by the arm, angry. "You-" slowly, she released her. It would do absolutely no good to strike the child. She was in a bad enough predicament as it was. "You know that was necessary, for us to escape."  
"Oh yes, of course it was," Eugenia nodded, clearly not believing her. "Come on, we've got to wait out the police."  
"Your father is still in here."  
"No, he'll be with the police. Why would he tire himself out following us? Besides, he won't want to frighten me any more than I already am."  
Irene studied the girl. "You don't seem frightened."  
"I'm not, leastwise of you." the child answered.  
"Why not?" Irene wanted to know.  
Eugenia paused then, looking up at her mother. "I've already lost a half of me, I don't expect there to be anything much more frightening than that," she answered honestly.  
Irene fell silent, letting the child bring her through another alcove. They came upon a familiar path, and Irene immediately hung back, seeing the spot where Molly Hooper had fallen, all that remained there was the bloodstain. Eugenia did not look at the darkened gravel. She went to the ivy wall, pushing aside the vines and turning the key that she had left in the lock.  
Irene was surprised. She had not known for certain that a door was there. At the most she had assumed it was a hidden entryway. In a moment, she heard a door creak, and Eugenia's hand poked through the vines, taking her by the wrist.  
She dragged her unceremoniously through the doorway, not caring if her mother got caught up or not. "Here, mind your head," she said as an afterthought, just as Irene's forehead collided with a low-hanging branch.  
"Ouch!" Irene rubbed her head, sighing with no small degree of anger. "What are we doing here?"  
"Hiding," Eugenia answered. "The police don't know this area,"  
"What about your father?" she asked, still rubbing the sore spot on her head.  
A voice from the shadows before them answered: "I'm familiar with it."

 _*click*_  
Irene opened her eyes to see a gun trained on her. Sherlock's hands were empty, as he stood directly in front of her. Instead, the gun pointed so carefully at her temple was held by Mary Watson. She half-raised her arm to defend herself with her own pistol.  
"Ah-" Mary pressed forward, bringing the barrel of the gun closer to Irene's cheek. "I wouldn't, if I were you, come on, toss it over there," she nodded to the ground by Sherlock's feet.  
"I could just shoot you," Irene said quietly.  
"You could," Mary agreed. "Just as easily as I could shoot you, and I promise I won't have any regrets about that."  
Sherlock had seen Mary angry just once before. Just once he had seen the ice in her gaze and heard the fire in her voice. Mary was a force to be reckoned with, and it was often that Sherlock thought of just how fortunate he was to have a formidable woman like Mary on his side.  
Slowly, Irene raised her hands, tossing the gun toward the open path.  
"You can't blame me for trying," she said, trying to smile easily. "I expect this entire ugly business will have some affect on where your brother decides to send me."  
"Oh I guarantee it will," Sherlock replied darkly. "I shouldn't wonder if he doesn't open up a spot in the Tower of London, just for you."  
Irene visibly blanched under the light from Mary's torch. "Well he needn't trouble himself on my account. Life in exile on the continent will more than suit me-"  
"Exile would be wishful thinking," Mary interrupted. "But do keep pushing your luck. It will be a hanging for you, should Molly Hooper not survive, mark me."  
Handcuffs were produced, Sherlock did not question how nor where Mary had gotten them from, he merely held the gun while she made sure Irene's wrists were securely behind her back. Each flanked Irene, keeping a firm grip on her forearms. At the entrance, they paused when Sherlock realized Eugenia had not followed. She remained where she was since she'd first come into the garden.

"Eugenia,"  
Hearing her father's voice, she blinked, back in the present. He held out his hand to her, and she hesitantly took it. He gave it a comforting squeeze before they headed back out to the path. Eugenia only let go to lock the door to the garden once more, and then followed the three adults back to the house. A police wagon was waiting, one that Irene did not recognize. Outside a line of guards stood, a pair of shackles hung off one guard's arm.  
"Rather over-doing it, don't you think?" Irene asked.  
"Not at all," Mycroft replied from across the drive. He was standing on the front steps, leaning against his umbrella. "I rather think it might be lenient. Have a seat, Miss Adler."  
"Lord Mycroft," Mary spoke up then, glancing at Eugenia and then back at him.  
"Yes," He nodded, realizing. "Sherlock, do take Eugenia in. Her aunt is most anxious about her."  
Sherlock glanced between his brother and Mary Watson, then at Irene.  
"Go on, it's just a bit of paperwork to sort out," Mary said evenly, nodding for him to head inside.  
"Yes," Sherlock agreed, and then picked up Eugenia, suddenly not wanting to take another step without his daughter in his arms. He paused at the door, turning to look at Irene as she stood waiting. "Goodbye, Miss Adler." With that, Sherlock stepped through the front door, kicking it shut behind them.


	15. Tell Me Why

The doors to the front hall closed behind them, and the noise of the heavy wood slamming shut caused Eugenia to jump. Sherlock held her tighter, cradling her. It had been too long since he held her. The long months that had stretched out since she had been forced to leave London had finally come to an end.  
"You're here," Eugenia murmured softly, staring up at him, almost wonderingly. "You're really here."  
"Of course I am," he soothed, gently squeezing the back of her neck comfortingly. "I shall always come for my girls. I promise." He cradled her, the grief of losing Hortense washing over him again, as fresh as the awful day it happened. He swallowed thickly, feeling Eugenia begin to shake in his arms. He felt his knees go weak, and he finally sat clumsily down on the floor, his daughter in his arms.

At last, held by her father, Eugenia began to mourn her lost sister, and she began to sob. She wept the tears that would not fall all those weeks ago as her father gently rocked her back and forth. The servants who had stood watching the chaos on the drive quietly filed out, sparing a glance at the child who had refused to cry until her father came.  
"Am I allowed to come home?" Eugenia asked through her tears. "May I come home?"  
"Yes of course, of course you will," he soothed. "Mrs. Hudson misses you terribly, and Miss Hooper-" at the sudden mention of the governess, of the woman he loved, Sherlock stopped. Eugenia looked up at her father, wild fear in her eyes.   
"Papa…"  
"Hush," he commanded. He stood, helping her to her feet. Again, he picked her up, carrying her to the parlor.

Stretched out on the sofa before the fire, Anthea lay, a warm flannel over her aching forehead. Upon hearing footsteps, she sat up half-way. She gave a gasp of relief, seeing Sherlock enter, Eugenia in his arms.  
"Oh thank heavens!" she reached for them both, and Sherlock approached. "You're not hurt? You're alright?" She smoothed Eugenia's hair, plucking a stray leaf from her curly locks.  
"She is unharmed," Sherlock confirmed. "Physically at any rate."  
"I saw," Anthea replied, looking up from the child to Sherlock. "Doctor Watson has taken Miss Hooper to the local hospital."   
Again, Sherlock was torn. He did not dare expose Eugenia to the shock of a hospital scene, nor indeed, if Molly were in a terrible way, the trauma of losing yet another loved one. But Molly was alone in the hospital with only Watson there. She needed her loved ones. He was afraid to leave Eugenia, he was opposed to it, in fact, but he did not know where to go. Eugenia took her father's hand, squeezing. "Father I'll look after Aunt Anthea," He looked down, surprised. Such wisdom in such a small child! Her eyes were frightened, but she smiled, wavering, doing her best to appear brave. "Miss Hooper mustn't be left alone," the child continued. "Please…will you give her a kiss for me?"  
Sherlock knelt, drawing her close, pressing her forehead. "I shall, I'll send word as soon as I know anything, anything at all, I promise." He thanked Anthea before embracing Eugenia just once more. "I'll come back for you, I promise."

He did not even make it to the door, for Mycroft stopped him. "I'm afraid you'll be of no use at the hospital, little brother, your daughter needs you here. Watson will send word."  
Sherlock stared, mouth agape. "I cannot, will not leave her there alone-"  
"She is not alone, Sherlock, but you must think of others. You cannot leave Eugenia alone, not right now! Where is your head?"  
Sherlock lowered his gaze to the floor, humbled. It was true, Eugenia had said she was perfectly fine, but looking back, while the evening was not terribly out of the ordinary for him, it was a devastating experience for his daughter. She had witnessed a beloved friend shot at close range, perhaps fatally, not to mention being held at gun-point by her birth mother. Truly, Sherlock was agonizing over what he ought to do. He wanted desperately to be with Molly, to be there regardless of the outcome, but the love for his child, for his daughter who had endured so much tipped the scales. Still, his resolve did not make the decision to stay any easier. He stood quite still, as if rooted to the floor, heart heavy in his chest.

Halfway to the parlor, Mycroft realized his brother had not moved. "Shall we join them?" he asked, hoping to break him out of his reverie.  
Sherlock was unmoving, staring at the floor. "Are you ashamed of me?" he asked softly.  
Here, Mycroft frowned. "I don't follow."  
"For wanting to be there…with her…instead of here…" He finally looked up, expecting to see his brother's usual stern countenance. Instead, he was surprised to see his brother's gaze softened, as if understanding Sherlock's plight.  
"No, Sherlock, I am not ashamed of you. If it were Anthea…" he paused, shaking his head. "No. I am not ashamed of you. I think I might have been, years ago, had we been younger."  
"Age has made us soft," Sherlock replied, a tinge of bitterness in his voice. He did not like these feelings of apprehension, the ache in his chest, pain that made his heart drop at the thought of Molly being taken from him. Suddenly, Mycroft's cool hand grasped the back of his neck, quickly releasing him.   
"It's made us wiser, little brother." His eyes twinkled in the dim light of the hall. "Though perhaps a good deal too sentimental."  
"Mother would be proud, I suppose."  
"We must face the facts, Sherlock," Mycroft said with a heavy sigh. "We are human." Quiet settled between them, before Mycroft turned, hands behind his back. "I don't suppose alcohol would soothe your temperament any?"  
"Not alcohol, specifically…" It was a stern, cold gaze from his brother that held Sherlock fast. Sherlock sighed. "Fine. I'll have a whisky." At this Mycroft nodded for his brother to follow him through the parlor.

Hearing the door open, Anthea and Eugenia both looked up, surprised to see Sherlock following his brother.  
"I thought you had gone to the hospital," Anthea said, moving to sit up, before her husband bade her to lie down again.  
"There wouldn't be anywhere for him to wait," Mycroft excused. He meant that waiting in a hospital by himself where Molly Hooper may have been dying, without anyone to give him information, would have been dangerous for his brother. In a hospital with all sorts of substances that were usually used for medicinal purposes, kept in flimsy locked cabinets just out of Sherlock's reach…no, it was far too dangerous. Mycroft would gladly ply Sherlock with as much whisky as he could hold if it meant keeping him out of the medicinal cocaine and opium.  
"Come here, lovey," Anthea reached for Eugenia. "Read me your story book, perhaps it will soothe my head."  
Eugenia, who had been watching her father, obediently picked up her discarded book and went to sit by her aunt.  
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sherlock sighed heavily, tasting whisky on his breath. He took another swallow of the strong liquor, not feeling at all better. Setting the glass aside, only half-empty, he stood, sliding his hands into his pockets. It was going to be an exceptionally long night.

 **Village Hospital**  
There was a reason John Watson did not like to work in hospitals. He appreciated the cleanliness of them, of the seemingly unending supplies at one's fingertips. It was the condescending hierarchy, of doctors refusing to listen to nurses who perhaps might have a better grasp on patients' needs that profoundly disturbed Watson. He refused the aid of several doctors, already seeing their manner would be of no help in the surgery. In the end only one other doctor, Barkley, was admitted to the operating room, followed by two nurses who seemed to have their wits about them.  
"Flow of blood has slowed," Barkley commented as nurses cut Miss Hooper out of her gown. "Clean water, nurse," he called over his shoulder. "Let's get this cleaned up and see what we're dealing with."  
"How does the wound look?" Watson asked, concentrating on setting up a needle of morphia for Miss Hooper.  
"Can’t see yet," Barkley replied. "I'll know more in a moment,"  
A knock on the door of the operating theater made both doctors glance up. Watson nodded for one of the nurses to answer it. Surprisingly, it was one of Mycroft's men. He held in his hands a kerchief, neatly folded.  
"The bullet, Doctor Watson-"  
"Put a mask on, and bring it here, nurse, fetch the man a clean tray. Barkley, can you account for the bullet in it's entirety?"  
Barkley handed his tools to Watson and took the kerchief from the man. Unfolding it, he began piecing it back together. "Most of the fragments are here, I won't know until I piece it back together," he commented. "The shot is clean, though. If we knew what type of pistol was used, we may narrow down the bullet and know more of how it broke apart."  
Watson glanced at the man, still standing by the door, now holding a mask over his face. He dug into his pocket, fishing out a piece of paper. "We had thought of that, it was an Enfield," the officer handed over the paper. "Standard bullets, it is surprising given the barrel of the gun she managed as clean a shot as she did."  
Barkley harrumphed at folded the kerchief again. "She may well survive yet."  
"She will," Watson answered grimly. Carefully he washed out the exit wound, not liking the look of the size of it. "Or the devil take me."

 **Holmes Estate**  
Sherlock left his glass untouched, resting his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He stared at the carpet, trying to distract himself by understanding the weave of the rug and how the ends were tied off. It was only marginally distracting at best. He needed something to calm his nerves, and whisky was certainly not going to cut the proverbial mustard, as it were. He would go mad if he had to stay here. He had to find something. There would be something, most certainly in a medicine cabinet. Just something to soothe his nerves. He glanced to the open parlor door. All he would have to do is make a simple excuse, slip upstairs, find a vial and a means of injecting it. Better yet if Anthea kept any powders, it would eliminate the need for a needle of any kind-  
A small hand touched his knee, startling him. "Papa?"  
The thought of cocaine still lingered in his mind's eye as he looked down to see Eugenia leaning against his leg.  
"Let me read to you," she said softly. Eugenia didn't like to see her father agitated. His knees wobbled, his eyes were blood-shot, and his complexion was pale.  
Slowly, Sherlock gathered her into his arms, lifting her onto his lap. He held her close, resting her head against his chest. Guilt filled him, guilt and doubt of his ever being able to conquer his wicked vices. How could he have been so tempted at such a time? Now was not to the time to go looking for trouble, no matter how desperately he wanted it.  
"Just stay here," he murmured, chin resting on her head. "Stay right by me." With his daughter in his arms, he could not very well make excuses to go and find something to calm his nerves. With his child on his lap, he would be forced to stay where he was and be a comfort to her. Slowly, he combed his fingers through her dark curls. "What was the song that Miss Hooper sang?"  
Eugenia sniffed, only a little. "I don't remember the words."  
"You remember the tune." He felt her nod against him. "Sing that then, please."  
She felt the trembling in her father's voice and looked up at him.  
He felt the eyes of his brother and sister in-law shift towards him, and he did not want to be seen. Slowly, he angled his body from Mycroft and Anthea, Eugenia still cradled in his arms. Lowering his head, hidden behind his daughter's soft curls, he blinked back tears. "Go on then," he murmured.  
Softly, Eugenia began to hum the lilting tune.  
Around and around the melody went, and a memory crept into Sherlock's thoughts-

_Sherlock stole up to the door of the nursery. Miss Hooper was still new to the work of a governess, and one could not be too certain. Quiet in the nursery, especially the Holmes' nursery, was an eerie thing and it usually meant someone was in trouble. A soft voice was singing a lullaby:  
"Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly, lavender's green  
When I am king, dilly, dilly, You shall be queen  
Who told you so, dilly, dilly, who told you so?  
'Twas my own heart, dilly, dilly, that told me so…"  
Through the open doorway he saw Miss Hooper gently rocking back and forth, nimble fingers sorting out the knotted thread in a shirt that needed mending. Hermia and Eugenia were fast off. His youngest had apparently had a nightmare. Miss Hooper glanced up at the child every now and again. Tracks of tears were still fresh on Hortense' cheeks, and her bottom lip quivered, but the song was soothing her, and when no tears fell, she sighed, heavy. Molly watched Hortense then, modulating the tune, her tone growing softer and softer, easing the child back into a deep slumber.  
"Sleep now, darling, everything will be perfectly fine in the morning," Molly spoke in hushed tones, breaking through her humming. "Your father loves you dearly, all of you, you mustn't doubt that. He'll be home soon, you'll see."  
Ashamed his homecoming was so late, he bowed his head as Miss Hooper finished the song. At that moment, she looked up at the partway open door to see him standing there. He felt her eyes on him and he looked up.  
"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," she murmured. Her eyes were large and soft, and he found himself looking at her mouth.  
"Good evening Miss Hooper." With that he turned and went to his own room._

Sherlock opened his eyes with a sharp intake of breath. The memory had revealed something telling: Molly Hooper had faith in him, even from those first weeks. Molly promised the children his love. Perhaps it had been the only thing she was certain of at that time. Molly Hooper liked certainties, she liked to be sure. Sherlock wished dearly he had spoken more freely of his feelings for her. Stolen moments in the kitchen, or on a private train carriage were hardly love confessions. Any man can kiss a woman he fancies (without suffering harm, hopefully) without understanding the meaning behind it. He had at one time doubted his feelings for her, but never once had her affections for him been questioned. She had time and again demonstrated her sincerity, her unconditional love not only for the children, but for him as well. Sherlock suddenly understood that he might have loved her, had she not bonded so well with his children, but the simple fact that she was monstrously protective of them, that her love for them was as fierce as if she herself had given birth to them endeared her to him all the more. He wanted her to be the children's mother, more than that, he wanted her for his own, to be his wife, to mother his children, to continue the family they had only just begun to form. He wanted to give her children and help her rear them. He was overcome, overwhelmed by the waves of emotions of these realizations that he stood suddenly, Eugenia slipped off his lap to her feet. She clutched her father's hand, startled as he covered his mouth with the back of his hand, and he shut his eyes tight, attempting to quell the urge to sob, and failing miserably.  
Anthea reached for her husband. "Mycroft let him go to her," she pleaded softly. "Please, please let him go to her,"  
Eugenia reached for her father, too short to wipe his tears away. "Don't cry papa, please don't cry,"  
Tears rolling down his cheeks, he picked up his daughter, holding her close. "I have to go, Eugenia," he managed. "I'll send for you as soon as I know anything, I promise."  
Eugenia wrapped her arms around her father, embracing him. "I know you will." She kissed his forehead, wiping his tears away with her little hands.   
"Don't cry anymore Papa."  
"I'll try not to," he said, attempting a smile. He set her down and turned to his brother.  
Mycroft was already on his feet, ringing the bell for the butler. "I'll send for the carriage,"  
"A horse would be quicker, leave it for Eugenia when I send word," he replied, hurrying to the door.

In the stable yard a groom led out the fastest horse in the stable, urging one of the stable lads to fetch the saddle. Sherlock lost no time in settling the bit between the horse's teeth and under its tongue.  
"He's agitated," the groom commented, soothing the beast's sleek neck. "But you'll not find a faster mount in all of Sussex."  
"I should expect nothing less from my brother's stables, are you finished down there?" Sherlock barked, and the stable boy checked the girth strap once more before nodding. Sherlock mounted up, barely waiting for the groom and stable boy to step back before he wheeled the steed around, urging the animal onward with all haste.

 **Village Hospital**  
Watson had overseen Barkley stitch Miss Hooper up. For now, they could only wait and see. Once sure they had done all they could, they transferred her to a bed in a quiet corner of the hospital ward. Letting out a tired sigh, John removed his mask and smock, washing his hands once more before he sank down into the chair by Miss Hooper's bed. She'd been administered another dose of morphia, so there was little chance she would wake up anytime soon. He wanted to believe the hope that welled inside him was to do with confidence in his skill as a doctor, not mere blind faith that Molly Hooper, a good and gentle woman deserved to live and she could not possibly pass away.  
"She must not," he murmured, quite unsure if he was speaking to God or himself. "She cannot." He rested his head in his aching hands, sighing heavily.  
"Watson."  
John looked up with a start. "Holmes, good God, man-"  
"Will she live?" Sherlock interrupted. He did not look to his friend, he stared instead at Molly Hooper, who lay impossibly still in the bed. Her complexion held an almost unearthly paleness to it. His heart lurched, afraid that he had come too late, that perhaps Watson was mourning her already. Before he could speak though, gently, ever so gently, Molly released a sigh, and her chest rose and fell lightly.  
"It's always difficult to tell at this time," Watson answered at last, looking at Molly again. "We stopped the bleeding in time. She was fortunate the bullet didn't strike any major organs. There wasn't any internal bleeding that we could ascertain. If she staves off infection, if she-"  
"Will. She Live?" Sherlock ground out, voice shaking.  
John looked at his friend. He suddenly realized that, despite his medical doubts, whatever he might have hoped to be the outcome, Sherlock would only accept one answer at the moment, he did not want statistics, he did not want any other outcome. "I think she will," Watson answered.  
Holmes turned to Watson then, hearing some truth in his friend's tone. "May I sit there?"  
Watson stood without question, nodding for him to take the chair. "I'll send a message to Mary," he paused then. "How is Eugenia?"  
"Quiet. I think that the gravity of the situation has not truly settled in her yet. She is with my brother and sister in-law."  
Watson nodded, silent. "I'll let you be for now, send word if there is anything wrong, I'll stay the night as well."  
"I'll have first watch," Sherlock called after him. "Go and let Mary know the surgery went well, find a bed and rest. You'll be of no use to anyone run off your feet."  
Watson was thoughtful as he regarded his friend. Slowly, he nodded, and headed out of the ward.

Sherlock tugged the chair closer to the bed, sitting down with a heavy sigh. Gently, he covered her limp hand in his. "I'm not very good at moments, but of course you know that by now," he murmured. "But I'm told it's how most gentlemen woo their beloveds. I haven't told you that yet, have I?" he frowned for a moment. "I've…made overtures of the physical sort to you, and while actions often speak louder than words, I think you would prefer to hear the words as well as the actual deeds. I think…I think that I am in love with you, Molly Hooper." The admission was quiet, and yet Sherlock realized the volumes, the true weight of his words, and still they weren't enough. Love seemed like such a paltry word for his feelings for Molly. "I think that I've only recently come to this realization, and perhaps my feelings for you have gone unnoticed by me for some time. I have grown accustomed to you at Baker Street…the idea of you not there is…" he swallowed thickly. "It is unthinkable. I won't have it, Molly Hooper, not until we've given this a proper go, because I think…" he couldn't stop the smile that formed then. "I think we could be quite brilliant together, Molly. We are brilliant. You make me quite human, if that is to be believed. My children taught me that I do in fact possess a heart, but my dear woman…" he sighed, shuddering, feeling his vision grow blurry again. "You my dearest friend have reminded me I am a man," he paused, thinking back on his words. "I don't mean that I only desire you in a physical fashion, though I will be frank, I do," he admitted with a smirk. "I desire your company, your intellectual company, you are brilliant beyond means, you…are my equal. You are the one that mattered most." He wiped his face, trying to clear his vision. "I wish…" he sniffled, cursing under his breath.  
"What do you wish?" Her voice was weak, the words slurred together, but they were hers.  
Sherlock gasped, shocked, he leaned forward. "Molly?"  
She could barely open her eyes, but he felt her fingers curl against his, and weakly she squeezed his hand. _"Sherlock…"_  
"Don't move, I'll fetch Watson," he murmured.  
"I'm fine, m'tired,"  
"That will be the morphia," Sherlock said. "I should still like to fetch Watson."  
"In a moment," she murmured. "Tell me what you wished."  
"I wished…" he bent closer, licking his lips, suddenly shy and nervous. "I wished for you to know how much…how I love you. How much I'd like to hold you, to kiss you every morning..."  
"Silly man," her eyes shut again, a gentle smile on her lips. "You haven't yet."  
He chuckled, smiling genuinely at her. "No, I haven't. But…I should like the opportunity to do so…if you'd stop mucking about getting shot."  
"I make no promises," she answered, teasingly.  
They sobered after a moment, and Sherlock soothed her hand. "I do, though. Love you, that is."  
She opened her eyes, smiling at him in the dim light. "And I you."  
"Will you…when you get out of here, as soon as you're well again…you will marry me, won't you?" he asked. He couldn't be bothered to ask for a courtship. Sherlock never did things the proper way anyway, he didn't see why he should start now.  
"Yes of course I will," despite the morphia, she smiled, her weary eyes softened, and she reached up, caressing his cheek with the tips of her fingers. He caught her hand in his, pressing her palm to his mouth, tenderly kissing the heel of her hand down to her wrist. "Is there anyone I should ask for permission?" he asked quietly, gently cradling her palm against his cheek.  
Her eyes were growing heavy again, but she wore an amused smile. "What about-" Instantly, he realized what she was about to say, and finished her thought with her:  
"The children?"  
He bent, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips. "My thoughts exactly."  
She heaved a gentle sigh, falling asleep again. "Go fetch Watson now," she murmured tiredly. "I know you want to."

An hour later, still at Molly's bedside, Sherlock looked up, hearing the doors to the ward open and shut. Quiet feet moved down the wide aisle. Mycroft carried Eugenia, and to Sherlock's surprise, holding onto his brother's hand was Hermia. He got to his feet.  
"I sent for her as soon as Miss Adler had been caught," Mycroft explained. "Lestrade was with her the entire trip, never fear."  
Sherlock could not speak for a moment. "Thank you," he said, at last finding his voice. "Thank you, Mycroft."  
Mycroft nodded, stepping around his brother, he set Eugenia down at Molly's bedside while Hermia went to her father. Immediately, Eugenia climbed into Molly's bed, careful not to disturb her.  
"Carefully now, Genie," Sherlock instructed. "Be very careful."  
He hadn't needed to caution his daughter, not really. Eugenia was gentle as a kitten as she curled up against Molly's uninjured side. Hermia climbed up onto the foot of the bed, resting her hands over Molly's covered feet.  
Molly, feeling the bed dip, roused herself. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the light. "Children…" she murmured, seeing Eugenia's head against her breast, and Hermia at her feet. "Dear girls…"  
Hermia's mouth twisted to a grimace, and she bent over Molly's feet, sobbing in relief. Eugenia lay quietly, wide-eyed, staring at Molly.  
"You won't go away?" she asked softly. "Promise you won't."  
Exhausted, still feeling the full strength of the morphia, Molly wanted desperately to stay awake, to reassure the children, but she was exhausted. She only blinked wearily at Eugenia, smiling gently. "I promise." This seemed to satisfy the child, and she bowed her head, shutting her eyes. Molly's gaze shifted to Sherlock, who had sat down again, reaching for her free hand. "I promise," she murmured once more, this time to him.  
He squeezed her hand, thumb tracing circles over her wrist.  
"Don't lie," his voice was soft, almost fearful. There was still a chance, there was always a chance that she might contract an infection.  
Almost asleep, Molly Hooper smiled at Sherlock. "I never lie."


	16. The Ending We Expect

Molly was asleep, Hermia was lightly dozing, curled up beside her with an open book on her lap when Sherlock entered the sitting room. Molly had been home for a week or so, mending slowly. With each passing day her strength grew, and everyone was confident in her recovery. Sherlock studied the pair of them, finding his heart swell with no small degree of pride and affection. Molly Hooper, the woman who loved his children, who loved him, alive and well! There was so much he owed to her, so much he wished he could repay to her for all that she had done for him and the children. Hermia stirred, stretching carefully.  
“Where is Eugenia?” Sherlock asked quietly as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.  
“In her garden,” Hermia answered.   
“You ought to go and fetch her, it’s nearly time for your riding lesson with your uncle.”   
Hermia obeyed, setting her book aside. Pressing a gentle kiss to Molly’s forehead, she went in search of her sister.   
“Must be something serious, if you’re sending the children off,” Molly said, eyes still shut, her voice heavy with sleep.   
“Not terribly,” Sherlock replied. He hitched up the knees of his trousers, taking the edge of the chaise, fitting carefully against the curve of her body. “Would you rather sleep a little longer?”  
“No, I’d rather see you,” she smiled gently, resting her hand against his arm.   
“Good, because I’ve got a present for you,” as he spoke, he delved a hand into his breast pocket. “One rather late in coming, but I blame Mycroft’s jeweler entirely for the delay,” he slipped a gold band onto her ring finger, and Molly held up her hand to see. “It was hell, apparently, getting that setting, but I rather thought the wait to be worth it, having seen it on your finger now,” Sherlock murmured. The center stone was a rich honey color, ringed in diamonds. “It’s called a ‘fire opal’ or something romantic like that,”   
Molly sat up, smiling beatifically, and grasping him by the collar of his jacket, drew him in for a searing kiss. 

“Really, Sherlock, if you can’t behave I’ll have to bring Mrs. Hudson out here to chaperone the pair of you,”   
At the sound of Mycroft’s voice, Molly pulled away, blushing furiously. Sherlock had the gall to merely look pleased, quite amused.   
“You wouldn’t dare,” he replied to his brother’s threat.   
“Let me thank him for my ring at least,” Molly said, still quite red.   
Mycroft stepped further into the room, hands behind his back. He bent, taking Molly’s hand to inspect the ring. “Impeccable, Miss Hooper, quite suitable,” he glanced at his brother. “Well done, little brother.”   
“I know,” Sherlock replied, nose in the air. “Aren’t you supposed to be conducting a riding lesson?”   
“Yes, but a parcel was just delivered, some papers I have been waiting for,” he revealed the packet that he had been keeping behind his back, setting it on Molly’s lap.   
“For me?” she asked, surprised.   
“For you,” Mycroft nodded, eyes twinkling with some mischief. “Sherlock informed me of a matter you had been attempting to sort out before your employment to him. Given the service you have done for the children, recent and past events, it hardly covers the debt owed to you, but I hope it is a start.”   
As he spoke, Molly untied the twine that held the brown paper together, unwrapping the papers. “Books!” she was surprised, delighted, and she opened the first to read the title. “Medical books!” she was surprised, clearly. As she separated the small stack, a thick document slipped out from between the pages of the topmost book. Molly caught it. “What’s this?” she broke the seal, glancing between the Holmes brothers curiously.   
“Read it aloud,” Sherlock suggested, eager.   
Molly glanced at him as she shook out the paper. 

_“Dear Miss Hooper,  
It is my great privilege to offer you admission to St. Bartholomew’s Medical College beginning in the autumn of eighteen-hundred-eighty-eight…”_ She trailed off, finding her eyes were blurry. “How…” she breathed, looking between the two gentlemen. “When…why?”  
“It’s what you wanted, is it not?” Mycroft asked with a frown.   
“Yes! Oh yes, of course it is!” Molly laughed, she looked at the letter again, tears falling freely. “But how is this possible? I applied a year ago, they declined-“  
“The board of St. Bartholomew’s would like to extend their sincerest apologies for the mistake in refusing your admission earlier,” Mycroft interrupted. “It seems when the country’s Chief Medical Officer heard that a woman had applied to nearly every medical university in London, as well as six across the country, he was intrigued, and quite in favor of your attending. St. Bartholomew is eager for you to make history, and is pleased to have you attend.”   
Molly looked at Sherlock then, hands trembling. “What about the wedding, and- the children, I’ll have so much to study, and classes every day- it will be so much-“  
“Who says we have to put anything off?” Sherlock asked. “It seems to me that there is plenty of time between now and next fall to plan and execute a fairly simple wedding, I trust you don’t want a big to-do.” He gathered her hands, thumbs gently soothing circles. “Besides, Mrs. Hudson could do with an extra pair of hands, I see nothing wrong in finding a maid to help around the house, and with the children when we are both busy.” He paused then, thoughtful. “Unless of course you don’t want to-“  
Molly looked up then. “Of course I want to!” she said fervently. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted! It’s just,” she looked at the letter again, and then her hand resting on the paper, the opal and diamonds sparkling in the light. “I never expected so much.”   
Sherlock took her hands then, kissing each one reverently. “We’ll find a way to fix everything, never fear.”   
“I trust then I did right by sending them your acceptance of admission letter in advance of your knowing you were even invited,” Mycroft broke in.   
Molly looked from her fiancé to her brother in-law, quite touched.   
“Help me up,” Molly ordered, and Sherlock stood, giving his arm. Once steady, Molly went to Mycroft, pressing his cheek gently. “Thank you,” she murmured, tears still lingering in her eyes.   
“It was nothing,” he replied gruffly, looking at his shoes. Quickly, he cleared his throat. “Now that I have delivered the good news, I’ll be off, I’m late for a riding lesson.”

Once Mycroft was gone, Molly leapt into Sherlock’s arms, kissing him everywhere her lips could reach – cheeks, forehead, neck, jaw and mouth.   
“You marvelous man, you!” she said in-between kisses.   
“Had I know this would be your reaction I would have told you when I first suggested it,” Sherlock chuckled appreciatively, arms around her waist.   
“I shall have to reward you,” she smiled against his mouth before leaning back to study him.   
“Oh?” he quirked an eyebrow, wicked intent gleaming in his eyes.   
“Yes,” she nodded, lifting her chin. “I shall have to marry you,”  
“My dear Miss Hooper, what shall the world think of you? Marrying your employer, studying to be a doctor…”  
“I endeavor to scandalize wherever I go,” Molly laughed, twining her arms about his neck.   
“Oh good!” Sherlock grinned. “I should hate for my wife to be dull.”   
“Mr. Holmes, I doubt very much that life with you will ever, ever be boring, not since the moment I first met you. It certainly hasn’t proved so thus-far.”   
Sherlock’s smile was gentle as he ducked his head, regarding her through half-lidded eyes. “Good,” he murmured before closing the distance between them. “I hate it when people are given the wrong impression.” 

The winter months passed by, now with everyone eagerly anticipating the summer wedding, and too the arrival of Mycroft and Anthea’s first child. With Molly’s recuperation nearing its end, and Hermia growing stronger by the day, the danger of her scarlet fever long past, Sherlock began returning to London for cases, happy to leave the women in the country where they could continue their plans for the summer. He was never gone longer than four days, and often returned with ideas for the upcoming nuptials, despite Mrs. Hudson’s scolding that a gentleman never took part in the actual planning of a wedding. He looked confusedly at the older woman.  
“Why ever not?” He asked, somewhat offended by Mary Watson’s snickering. “It’s my wedding too, isn’t it?”  
“Yes, but usually men have poor taste,” Mary laughed. “If my John had tried to help plan our wedding, we’d more than likely have too little food, too many flowers, and a busker for the orchestra!”   
“Never mind,” Molly smiled. “I like your helping, why shouldn’t you, anyway? The girls each helped me choose what flowers to carry, and what I’m going to wear.”   
“I’d rather have a hand in helping you choose what you’ll be wearing that evening,” he murmured in her ear, low, causing her to blush right down to her collar.   
“All right, you two,” John reprimanded, though he was looking at Sherlock.   
Of course, everyone had a hand in one way or another, helping to plan the wedding. In the end, there was far too much food, though Sherlock protested that the Baker Street Irregulars (whom he made sure to purchase their train tickets) would obviously be taking the left-overs with them. There was a lovely orchestra for dancing, and far more children than adults in attendance. Hermia and Eugenia would remain on the estate until Molly and Sherlock returned from their honeymoon.   
Drama did have a habit of following wherever Sherlock went, though Molly promised that she didn’t mind in the least being prevailed upon in the middle of their wedding journey to assist Sherlock in solving a murder. Sherlock was so thoroughly impressed by his new bride’s assistance that once the case was solved, the hotel staff heard nothing from the Holmes suite except for breakfast and dinner orders for three full days. Four months later, Molly chalked up those three days of solitude as the reason for her family way, not that either of them truly minded. With Anthea and Mycroft besotted with their newborn, another addition to the family was only too welcome. Hermia and Eugenia accepted the news with a good deal of squealing and bouncing about while Sherlock kissed Molly in congratulations, ears red as John clapped him on the back on ‘A job well done.”  
“It certainly wasn’t all my doing,” Sherlock replied archly.   
The good doctor coughed, red in the face, turning to busy himself with closing up his medical bag.   
“I think I’ll be breaking quite a few records when I attend the fall semester,” Molly said with a laugh. “Not only will I be the first woman to attend, I’ll also be pregnant!”   
“You don’t mean you’re still thinking of going!” John gasped. “Holmes! Do reason with your wife! In her condition, to attend medical school-“  
“I couldn’t be more proud,” the consulting detective interrupted, pressing a kiss to Molly’s forehead.   
“But- but-“ John stuttered.  
“Goats butt, birds fly, and women make history,” Mary shushed him.   
It took John a little time to come around to the idea of Molly attending university in her condition, but by the time the autumn semester had begun, he was fully supporting her, glad to loan her any books in his library and pleased to answer any of her questions, though he always had a tendency to treat her with kid gloves, no matter how excellent her grades were (though he was usually the first to boast about her marks, especially in the company of other doctors). 

If there was anyone who doubted Molly being able to run a house, fulfill the duties of wife and mother, and complete her assignments all while pregnant, they were quickly proven wrong. She excelled in her studies, quickly choosing her major (pathology) and sailing to the head of the class as far as marks went. She was one of the few students who could be counted on to keep a strong constitution during practice autopsies, and became known for her seeming inability to become flustered when quizzed.   
The months leading up to her confinement slipped past, until a week before she was due, her professors urged her to stay home, if not for herself, then for the health of the baby. It took a good deal of convincing from Sherlock to agree to stay home, and while Molly wasn’t terribly thrilled with the prospect of having to complete her lessons outside of the classroom, she was, in the end, happy she had relented. Three days after she had agreed to take her confinement, her waters broke at Baker Street in the middle of the afternoon, when she would have been in class.   
“There you see, it’s just us,” Mary Watson said happily. “If you were at Barts, you’d be turned into a classroom lesson: obstetrics and how many ways a man can ruin a simple birth.”   
“I beg your pardon?’ John called from the corner of the room where he was washing up.   
“Except you, dear,” Mary called over her shoulder. “You’re the only doctor who could pass for a decent midwife.”   
“Humph.” 

Despite his protests, Sherlock was removed from the room, sent to entertain Hermia and Eugenia, though in the end, they were the ones who provided the distraction.   
With Mycroft and Anthea both busy with their new baby, Sherlock merely sent them a wire that Molly had gone into labor, and he did not expect to see them, though he would fully expect their well wishes and a card of some sort. A telegram was sent back in record time stating that Sherlock could expect a note the following day, and some ‘trifles’ in lieu of their presence at the birth. Among the box of gifts that their Uncle and Aunt sent, Eugenia and Hermia were thrilled to find that they had each been sent a new velveteen rabbit, to replace the one that had been lost when Hermia and Hortense were ill.   
Molly’s labor lasted almost two days, and letters and well wishes all flooded in, surprisingly from her fellow students. The wait was almost intolerable for Sherlock, who was banned from the birthing room, no matter how much he demanded entry. The Irregulars came and went, eager for the news everyone was waiting to hear.   
Finally, late the second afternoon, there came a tiny squall, and Hermia, Eugenia and Sherlock all leapt to their feet, making for the stairs. Sherlock hefted Eugenia up under his arm, carrying her like a sack of potatoes to keep from tripping over her as they all tore up the stairs. 

They all burst into the room just as Mary was opening the door to call for them.   
“Don’t you dare jump on that bed!” Mary warned the children, who both stopped immediately, waiting to be invited over. Weak from her exertions, Molly smiled wearily and opened her hand, motioning them over. In her other arm, a tiny bundle lay, its cries lulled somewhat, now that it was safe in its mother’s arms. Having their mother’s permission, Hermia and Eugenia both carefully climbed up onto the bed to peer at the tiny pink thing.   
“What is it, Mother?” Eugenia asked, wide-eyed, having never seen such a tiny baby. Hermia, who recalled her sisters when they were baby’s, gently stroked the child’s soft cheeks.   
“This is your brother, William John Holmes,” Molly said, her voice soft. Watson was surprised at the honor, looking quite touched. Molly looked over to Sherlock, who was staring in wonderment. John came around the other side, and Sherlock gasped, for in the doctor’s arms was another bundle. “And your sister-“ Hermia and Eugenia both stared, wide-eyed, overjoyed, craning to see. “Adelia-Hortense,”   
Eugenia stared at her mother eyes filling with tears.   
“Is that all right?” Molly asked softly, to which Eugenia nodded, hiccupping back a sob. Far too overcome to even speak, Eugenia went on staring at her sister’s namesake, wishing keenly that Hortense was with them, but glad for a new sister, glad that they could honor Hortense’ memory in such a fine way.   
Carefully, ever so gently, Sherlock took the edge of the bed while the girls climbed around to the other side to give him room. Molly passed William to him, murmuring to mind the baby’s head.   
Sherlock was too overcome to protest that he knew very well, having had three children long before they had even met.   
“Aren’t they perfect?” Hermia asked softly. Sherlock looked from his son, to his daughters, and finally to his wife, a term he had once thought of only with disdain, was now one he held dearest to his heart.   
“Yes,” he answered. He kissed Molly tenderly, who leaned against him, quite exhausted. “The very definition.”   
“Nonsense,” Molly replied with a gentle laugh.   
“You never lie,” Sherlock cautioned, to which his wife smiled, nodding at last in agreement.   
“Just so.”  
If it was in poor taste to have the family in the birthing room so soon afterwards, nobody seemed to care, for the Holmes never did things the usual way. Those who knew them best knew that love was a hallmark of the Holmes family, though it was not always expressed as it ought to be. There were still times Molly scolded Sherlock for staying out too late on cases, for performing dangerous deeds when he had a family at home, and there were still times that Sherlock argued that it was often what kept him sane. Still, life was happy, incandescently so. Sherlock had not believed himself to ever be content, yet he found himself happy with his lot, pleased at the people in his life.   
“Do you know something?” Sherlock said to Molly one night as they prepared for bed. “Mrs. Hudson is the one who started all this.”  
“What?” Molly asked.   
“She was the one who wanted a governess,” Sherlock explained. He climbed under the covers, putting out the lights. “If she hadn’t insisted on the necessity of it, we might never have met, you would not be in college, and William and Adelia would not exist.”   
“Do you know, I never dwell on ‘what-if’s’?” Molly replied, curling up against him. “It makes life much sadder.”   
As she so often was, Molly was correct, and Sherlock very happily conceded, deciding that he’d rather lose an argument with his wife and end the evening on an enjoyable note. 

And that is how we shall leave them.


End file.
